The Programmed Man Read online

  "All right," Hull replied heavily, "I'll do it your way, but I want you to know my thinking."

  "I appreciate your feelings. I promise you they won't be free long, if we're lucky." He glanced at the navigator. "Does the message give any clue to their location?"

  "None except hemisphere," answered Galton, "but that shouldn't be much more of a problem than finding a bug on an apple."

  "I hope it's that simple." He walked over to the star window and gazed at the planet. With the remote Gelhart sun lying at a right angle, Bonoplane had grown to a pale yellow half-disk that appeared pasted against the purple-black of space -- a lonely world. His eyes sought to discover any surface markings that might indicate heights or depths or give some clue to its nature. A vast desert, Galton had termed it -- vast and dry and almost featureless. A null world.

  He wondered again that the fate of the Empire should be decided in such a remote corner of the galaxy and by so few men. For all the Empire's proud banners and far-flung might, it was nearing the end of the clock of its history, he reflected. Few men knew that. And yet the signs were indisputable, drawn in the ink of boredom and apathy. August Karsh was battling gamely and desperately, using every means at his command to keep the Empire intact, yet Karsh must know that he was waging a delaying action. The banners were dusty. Why? The adventure was gone, he mused, and with it the spirit of man. When had the change come? A decade ago? A century? A thousand years? Whenever it had happened, the Empire had embarked on a new course, moving sluggishly into the twilight of its time. Perhaps it was fortunate for the human race that a second force was emerging. The violet star...

  The search ended three days later.

  Because Bonoplane was barren and uninhabitable, all records of its survey had been lost in time -- "If there ever was a survey," Galton said. The loss of records didn't deter him. By arbitrarily gridding the planet into degrees of latitude and longitude, he enabled the Draco to probe it systematically from a low-level polar orbit. His navigation tools were the clock and knowledge of the planet's rate of rotation.

  "The almost complete lack of mountains and valleys will speed the search," he told the agent.

  York nodded, thinking that any one inch of Bonoplane was much like any other inch; it was a planet on which there was no place to hide.

  Contemplating his own role, he sensed a sudden stillness inside, coupled with a humility that was new to him. He had been on other assignments, many of them, but none which carried such an awesome burden or with stakes so high. Yet in truth he had been enjoying it, this matching of wits, this walking the narrow edge. And oddly enough -- he'd sensed it before -- he felt a certain camaraderie for both those who must win and those who must lose. August Karsh, Dr. G, Hull and Tregaski were of a breed -- and the Programmed Man, who even now must be battling for his life on the small planet Grydo. But not Li-Hu's agents. The saboteurs were of another stripe, wanton killers who played outside the game. Contemplating them, he felt cold inside.

  He was watching the yellowish desert below when the break came. It came in the form of a beeping signal, a flashing light, dancing needles on the bridge readout console. As Hull stepped quickly to the board, Galton explained the alert. An infrared laser beam, sweeping the path ahead, had detected a distant heat source on the desert floor. This had activated two radars, causing them to rivet on the spot and send forth signals.

  "Analysis of the echoes from one scan will determine the nature of the object in terms of metallic content," said Galton. He explained that the second scan returned a signal which displayed the shape of the object on a tube the captain was watching. As he spoke, the fragmentary forms began to appear, as if a hand itt back of the tube were drawing crude cylindrical shapes.

  "That's it," exclaimed Hull. "It's the Rigel and what appears to be three of its landers."

  "That could mean quite a few survivors," observed York.

  Hull turned, rubbing his hands. "I'll warrant you that it won't be long now."

  He felt a sudden impatience and asked, "How soon before we can go down?"

  "As soon as you're ready, Mr. York." Since the admiral's last directive, Hull had been reserved and polite, his attitude reflecting York's new status.

  "I've been ready for days," he answered.

  Hull nodded and swung toward the watch on the communicator. "Order the landing party to stand by, and inform Lieutenant Tregaski," he instructed. He glanced back at York. "We'll deship in fifteen minutes."

  "Yes, sir." York grinned. "Never thought you'd see this planet, did you?"

  Hull's face relaxed somewhat. "In truth, I didn't. I only hope I don't find reason to regret the opportunity."

  "We hope," he corrected. "You're not alone."

  York made a hurried trip to the hospital to talk with the doctor before going to his own quarters to prepare for descent. He found Benbow busily packing a satchel and briefly told him what he wanted.

  "Good idea." Benbow nodded without stopping his work. His ready acquiescence told York that Hull had briefed his senior officers on the admiral's latest order and that henceforth any suggestion of his was to be construed as a mandate. He grinned, wondering if a civilian ever before had commanded an Empire destroyer of the line. It didn't appear likely.

  Returning to the starboard lander assigned to the mission, he bumped into Les Osborn. Osborn smiled proudly and tapped a gold sunburst on his sleeve. "Been promoted," he announced. "I'm armament third."

  "Good, you're on your way," York exclaimed.

  "I'm going down with you, did you know?"

  "Glad to have you along," he assented. "Remember, if I give you an order -- "

  "I'll remember," promised Osborn. "Depend on me."

  "I'll do that," York promised. "We'd better hurry."

  Tregaski and a lieutenant named Wexby were waiting with an eight-man party when he reached the lander area, with Osborn trailing behind. Tregaski straightened his big body as if uncertain whether or not to come to full attention, then barked, "Osborn, fall into ranks."

  "Yes, sir." The new armament third moved with alacrity to join the enlisted men. York suppressed a smile, noting with satisfaction that everyone was heavily armed. From initial skepticism, it was clear that Hull had come to believe in the saboteur theory.

  Tregaski glanced at his wrist piece and said, "We'll deship in three minutes, Mr. York."

  "Thank you," York answered. He glanced around. Captain Hull and the doctor came into view down the corridor. Tregaski started to bark an order when Hull waved him to silence.

  "Let's dispense with the formalities," he said. "We're running late."

  "Yes, sir."

  Hull looked at York, his face a study. "I've done many things in my time," he said, "but I've never met saboteurs before. This should be interesting."

  "I can promise you it will be," York said.

  Lieutenant Tregaski, as York had discovered, was a man of many talents. Although he appeared to have no fixed duties or responsibilities aboard the Draco and was not by rank a senior officer, he served as the captain's aide and listening post and was the main medium through which Hull's orders were transmitted and effected. Thus York was not greatly surprised when Tregaski went forward to the pilot's compartment and shut the door behind him.

  York sat with Hull and Benbow in a small compartment immediately above the forward armament wells. It held several small ports which, at the moment, looked into the interior of the starboard dock in which the lander was nestled.

  Wexby, a dark giant with the massively ridged facial bones and cupped earlobes of an inhabitant of the Sartan worlds, sat aft with the crewmen in a compartment which easily could have held an additional twenty men.

  Hull shut the door to block off the rear compartment and spoke into a seat mike. "You may get underway, Lieutenant."

  "Yes, sir." The lieutenant's muffled voice came through a speaker embedded in the forward bulkhead. A muted roaring came to York's ears, followed by a
slight lurch. Miraculously, it seemed, he saw the Draco through the side port, floating like a great whale in the depths of space. With the pale yellow light of Gelhart glinting on its snoutlike bridge, it presented a formidable appearance. As he watched, it began to recede overhead, and he realized they were already falling from orbit.

  Hull looked at York and continued conversationally. "I believe we should restrict the number of men who view the Rigel. Or what remains of it," he added.

  "I've thought of that," York admitted. "We might need a man or two to escort survivors back to the lander. If we need more, we can always send for them."

  Hull glanced at Galton and back at York. "Let's speak bluntly," he said. "The N-bomb compartment on the Rigel lies forward, immediately under the navigation bridge, and is accessible only from the bridge. I don't want any unnecessary eyes in that part of the ship."

  Benbow didn't take offense. "I don't want to know any part of that secret," he said.

  "Nor I," Hull answered solemnly. "I hope it's not thrust on me."

  "Doc will have to see the ship -- the dead," York declared.

  Hull's face tightened. "There's plenty of ship behind the navigation bridge. If there is a bridge," he added.

  "Of course," murmured Benbow.

  "I want to see the bomb compartment regardless of condition," declared York, "even if we have to cut our way in with torches."

  "I suppose," Hull answered. He flicked a button on the seat mike. "Wexby?"

  "Yes, sir." The lieutenant's voice came through like a bullhorn.

  "The landing party will remain aboard after touchdown," he instructed. "The sole exceptions are yourself and one other man -- make it Osborn. Leave Chief Harriman in charge."

  "Yes, sir," the lieutenant repeated.

  Hull closed the switch and leaned back, his eyes on York's face. "We might talk about the interrogation," he suggested.

  York shook his head. "I wouldn't hold one, not right away. I'd get the survivors back to the lander, give us a chance to look around."

  "That's reasonable," he assented.

  "I'd also allow them normal conversation with the crew."

  Hull's head came up. "The survivors? Isn't that dangerous?"

  "I don't want them to suspect that they're under arrest. You might make arrangements to have them watched. Nothing obvious, of course."

  Hull nodded stiffly, his face showing his distaste.

  York watched the desert flatten out as the lander swooped lower. The yellowish color of the planet's face darkened, broken here and there by occasional ocher streaks which later he identified as low rock outcrops. But essentially the surface was flat -- a stark, unending desert that stretched from horizon to horizon in all directions. He thought he'd never seen such utter desolation.

  He let his thoughts wander. The bold plan concocted by Li-Hu on the distant Alphan world of Shan-Hai was bearing fruit that even the prince hadn't anticipated. Or had he? York stirred uneasily at the question. But even the best-laid plans go awry, he reflected. It was his business to see that they did. As always, word of the prince's attempted coup had seeped out. August Karsh had gotten it through his grapevine, and Dr. G through his. Now the great powers were embroiled in a three-way battle that could change the future of the galaxy.

  What were his own chances? Excellent, he thought. The saboteurs' plan of action was, by its very nature, inflexible, and because it was, it must end in failure. If he assumed that, the conflict reduced itself to a battle of wits between the Empire and the awesome violet sun, which rode with its four planets in lone splendor beyond the confines of the galactic rim.

  He frowned, thinking that there was but one flaw in his reasoning. Whether he won or lost depended not on him but on what happened on another world. Grydo. The Programmed Man. How could he escape the dragnet Karsh would have launched? He couldn't, not on such a small planet. But that wasn't the question. For how long could he escape the dragnet?

  That was the real question.

  He glanced uneasily out the port, surprised to see that they were skimming the bleak surface, and realized it was to preserve the element of surprise until the last possible moment.

  "Makes you wonder why a world like this was ever created," Benbow murmured.

  "Does there have to be a purpose?" York asked.

  "There usually is, although often we fail to see it."

  "It's odd that a planet should have oxygen, a breathable atmosphere, yet be so bleak," York mused. "It must rain."

  "Probably, but without mountains, valleys, or seas, the atmosphere must be relatively stable," Benbow speculated. "There are no highlands to set the course of rivers, no basins for the waters to gather. It's a planet that has reached equilibrium, so that what rain falls is uniform. It must be much like the Sark plains of Traska or the Gobi of Earth."

  Tregaski's voice broke from the speaker. "Five minutes to touchdown," he announced.

  Hull brought his gaze back from the port. "Very good. Allow several hundred yards' landing distance from the nearest craft." Without waiting for a response, he pushed another button. "This is the captain speaking. Prepare number two nuclear turret for action."

  "Turret two standing by," a muted voice answered.

  Hull glanced toward York as he continued. "Should the landing party be attacked in any way, you are ordered to immediately incinerate the Rigel and all landers and personnel present, without regard for friend or foe. Acknowledge."

  "Turret Master Carmichael, sir."

  "Carry on, Carmichael." Hull flicked off the switch without removing his eyes from York's face. They were hard, speculative eyes.

  "I agree," York answered easily. He turned to look out the port again. He hoped none of the survivors were temperamental.

  "Stand by for retro," Tregaski cautioned. York braced himself. As the exhaust was rechanneled through forward-pointing tubes, he felt the force come, a steady push that caused him to lean toward the bulkhead separating him from the pilot's compartment. At the same time he saw that the desert was receding at an even slower pace. Moments later Tregaski said, "I have her on the scope."

  "How many blips?" asked Hull.

  "Four. Must be the Rigel and three landers," he said. There was a brief silence during which the desert floor came to a virtual standstill. "Stand by for touchdown," Tregaski barked.

  York stared through the port, realizing there was nothing to see on either side. Shortly afterward he felt a slight jar, and Tregaski announced, "We're down, about two hundred yards from the nearest lander. The Rigel -- what's left of it -- is just beyond."

  "Very good," Hull answered. He turned to York. "Shall we go?"

  10

  YORK EMERGED from the lander behind the captain, conscious of the thinness of the atmosphere. It cast the desert's face in stark clarity and gave a bite to his lungs. It held not the faintest breath of wind. Nor was there anything to blow, for as far as his eye could see, there was not a single tree or shrub, nor even a blade of grass. He thought he had never felt such utter calm.

  Doctor Benbow followed, carrying his medical satchel. Setting it on the ground, he stood next to the captain, blinking owlishly in the yellow light. Next came Tregaski, followed by Wexby and Osborn, the latter remaining unobtrusively in the rear.

  For a moment they were silent, all eyes strained toward the fallen cruiser. Looming beyond the three gray landers, its graceful lines were oddly askew, as if it had been crunched to one side. The scene held the unreality of a painting. York searched for signs of life but saw none.

  Tregaski broke the silence. "She doesn't look as if she smacked in at too high a speed or too steep an angle," he commented. "She's badly damaged, but not that badly."

  "I'd noticed," Hull replied noncommittally.

  York had reached the same conclusion. If the Rigel had plunged down out of control, it would have been smashed flat, half buried in a crater; had it struck at a grazing angle, it would have been strewn for m
iles across the desert's face. But it was neither. Cracked, broken, its bottom smashed, it still was recognizable for what it had been -- a great ship of the line.

  "Here they come," someone murmured.

  York switched his gaze and saw movement on one of the landers. Three men straggled from it and started toward them, walking lethargically, as if the burning yellow sun had drained every ounce of energy from their bodies. Their legs pumped in a curious, disjointed manner.

  "Slow to make an appearance," remarked Tregaski.

  "I'd noticed," Hull repeated. "Remain with the lander, Lieutenant. You know the orders."

  "Yes, sir," Tregaski answered smartly.

  Hull nodded at the agent and started ahead, walking at a pace no greater than that of the oncoming men. York and the doctor fell in on either side of him, followed by Wexby. Osborn trailed in the rear.

  Glancing at Hull, York noted that his square face was totally devoid of expression, as if he had erased every emotion within him. Could he see the mud-blue eyes, they would be equally blank, he supposed. Only his jaw muscles gave him away; they were corded and set. Towering a full head over the captain, Benbow walked with a short, mincing step as he attempted to hold down his stride. His face, yellow-colored under Gelhart's sun, held a sorrowful expression, as if he already were contemplating the death he knew he was to encounter. York didn't envy him.

  As the gap between the approaching figures narrowed, the foremost drew his body up straighter and quickened his pace, holding his head high. York saw that he was somewhat taller than the others, leanly built, with the graceful movements of a veteran spaceman. He barked something under his breath, and his companions straightened, attempting some semblance of military bearing. York saw that the rearmost man was an Alphan.

  The leading figure halted several paces from the captain, stood at attention and saluted briskly. "Quartermaster Chief Albert Barngate reporting, sir."

  Hull didn't return the salute; neither did he identify himself. "The senior petty officer surviving?" he asked bleakly.

  "Yes, sir," answered Barngate. He shot a curious glance at York before motioning toward his companions. "Lee Chun, maintenance first, and Jarrett Shumway, maintenance second," he continued.