Earth's Long Shadow

by Kenneth Bulmer

Genres: Science Fiction; Alien Contact; Space Opera

Synopsis

Visa for an enigma. When John Carter came to the Horakah Cluster, it was in the guise of an interstellar salesman. If anyone there suspected he was more than that, it would mean his instant execution. But Carter's unusual personality made it possible for him to put over the deception and even gain a visa to the forbidden central planet, an arsenal of space war factories. Of course, had to make some special deals to do it, and those proved his undoing. For he found himself caught between two menaces: the tyrannical militaristic moguls and a fantastically greater threat fro beyond the ends of space.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 124

Sample

DIRECTLY he dumped his single case on the customs bench, Dave Caradine began telling the old familiar lies. This far into the Galactic Hub, with stars and planets thicker than pipe in a pomegranate, they took their customs inspections seriously. He wasn’t telling his elaborately calculated lies to cover up smuggling—that was strictly for the small time.

He opened his case helpfully. The planet’s name was Gamma-Horakah and Caradine hadn’t wanted to make planetfall here at all. Out on the field a tractor with an off-key motor was hauling the starship off the pad. Other passengers were lining up, brightly dressed men and women from a hundred planets. Each individual person, Caradine knew with a sour little smile of amusement, figured that his or her own planet was the Golden Peak of civilization and culture—after Ragnar and the good ol’ PLW, of course.

Those two groupings really were worth a visit.

The questions and the lies began.

“Name?”

“John Carter,” Dave Caradine said. Using that name always did give him a kick.

“Occupation?”

He was too polite, and far too cautious, to point out that all this was in the green plastic passport lying with his case on the bench. The customs man was short and running to fat, a little sweaty in the heat of Gamma-Horakah’s high summer. He’d be reasonably polite, too, until Caradine told him where he was from.

“Oh,” he said casually. “I’m a businessman. Hoping to prospect new markets here. Nice world you have …”

“Where you from?”

“Federation of Shanstar.”

“Shanstar?” The customs man made a production out of his frown. He was a citizen of the powerful Horakah Cluster; he could afford to be patronizing to lesser breeds. He could afford to be, and he was.

Caradine had to take it. That was always the problem, knowing just how high to pitch the planetary cluster you claimed as home. He’d made the mistake, early on, of claiming a really grade A 1 Plus cluster. They’d unmasked him, tried him, fined him, tossed him in jail. The next time he’d swung too low—he snickered at the thought of the idiocy of claiming to be from a single planet of a single system— and he’d spent a frustratingly miserable three months cleaning out toilets. A man without the protection of a strong home was a man to be pushed around unhesitatingly.

But to get the balance just right, and to pitch it just so that no one would bother to check up …

“Shanstar?” The customs man shook his head wonderingly. It was a good act.

Caradine said, “Fifty planets, and growing every year, friend.” He lowered his voice, confidentially. “There’s talk that PLW will be sending a face-finding mission preparatory to setting up a consulate.”

“The PLW Embassy on Alpha Horakah,” the customs man said off-handedly, “is one of the oldest establishments in this area of the galaxy.”

It was a rebuke.

Caradine smiled.

“I’ve heard such a lot of Alpha-Horakah, that I’m figuring on paying the planet a call.”

“You’ll be lucky.”

Caradine widened his smile.

The customs man activated his gazeteer and the screen lit up. The robot had no trouble remembering Shanstar.

“Fifty-two planets,” the customs man said, slightly impressed despite the habitual might and glory of Horakah.

“Well, what do you know!” Caradine thumped the bench with his fist. “Another couple already!”

The rest of the data were read out.

“Quite a nice little grouping, Federation of Shanstar. I see you don’t yet have much of a navy.”

That had been one snag. Caradine had had to risk it.

“Well, you know how it goes. So far we’ve not bumped into any really hostile entities. But the yards are all there; the navy could grow overnight.”

“Yeah, and babies grow under oleander trees. Save it. You skimp on defense and one day, powie! You’ll wake up to find Shanstar a province of some other tougher grouping.”

“You could be right, friend. Horakah ought to know about these things.”

At the customs man’s quick, undecided glance, Caradine thanked his luck that he’d tacked the extra words on that clumsy sentence, He flicked his open case.

“Want to look?”

“Sure. Anything to declare?”

“Only this.”

He slid the blued metal weapon from his shoulder holster and skidded it neatly across the bench so that it halted, shining and slick and oiled, directly before the customs man. The man of Horakah flinched back. The speed of draw had been entirely reflex and Caradine cursed himself. Idiot! Take it easy. Relax. The old flannel is getting you into this dump, boy. Don’t foul it up.

“You kinda flash that thing, mister.”

“It’s nice of you to say. Just personal protection. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a lousy shot.” He laughed.

The customs man laughed, too, as he picked the gun up. It made him stop laughing. He stared at Caradine.

“A Beatty one millimeter needle-beam, duration one-hundreth of a second.” He spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “About a ’56, I’d say.”

“Fifty-eight.”

“Yeah. And made on Ragnar.”

“That’s right,” said Caradine brightly.

The gun was always a chance.

“How’d you get it?”

“No mystery. Bought it on Shanstar.” He opened his wallet. “Look, here’s the receipt.” He pushed it across.

“Humph. Well, looks okay. Shouldn’t be any trouble about a license for the Horakah Cluster.”

“Thanks.” Caradine felt an elation; mild, but nonetheless positive. Here on Gamma-Horakah he was going to pick up a license for the gun which would be effective in all the other worlds of Horakah. He wanted to get to Alpha …

And then his mental alertness sagged. After the big smash, going anywhere with any purpose had become meaningless. He wanted to go to Alpha merely because that world was the capital of the cluster. And … Dammit all! He had to keep reminding himself, he was just a peaceful businessman. He was. That was all—now. And he had to do business in order to live. Going to Alpha was important; but not important enough to warrant the itchy expectation that, unaccountably, rode him now.

The customs man punched the necessary keys for the license, the robot burped the card out, and Caradine paid. The money was in Galaxos, which simplified things.

Now came the crucial moment. The passport in its green plastic cover was picked up, flipped open, photograph compared. There were fingerprints, retinal images, ear dimensions, sold prints, too. All those were quite in order. The high-class and fantastically expensive forgery lay in the name of the bearer, John Carter. If Caradine got through with that, he knew one little old half-blind man on Shanstar V who was in business. If he didn’t …

Well, one prison was much like another in the human section of the galaxy.

The line waiting was growing restive. One or two children were playing with increasing violence. And it seemed as though the customs man had flexed his status-flaunting mental muscles enough. He flicked through the passport, cocked an eye at Caradine and the photograph, and then pushed the book into the franker. The robot selected the right page and firmly imprinted the official seal of the Horakah Cluster, sub-department of Gamma-Horakah.

The book hadn’t been shot into the forgery detector. Caradine tried not to breathe a gusty sigh of relief. Even had it been subjected to that test, he had a certain faith in that little old half-blind man and his wizardry with chemicals, nucleonics and downright forging artistry.

The formalities were amicably concluded.

“Thank you, Mr. Carter.”

Caradine began to repack his bag. “Good hotel?”

“We—ell. Shanstar, hmm? I’d recommend the Outworld Arms. Comfortable.”

“Thanks.” He’d give it a whirl, anyway. Have to, now, having asked.

As he walked off, the customs man called after him: “Hope you have a pleasant stay on Gamma-Horakah, Mr. Carter.”

He turned, smiling. “Thanks.”

The customs man watched the tall, lean, wide-shouldered figure silhouetted for an instant against the sunlight. That great mass of black hair gave a … a leonine look. Yes, that was it, leonine.

Dave Caradine walked out to the cab rank. Even he was beginning to believe that Earth didn’t exist.

DAVE CARADINE finished his meal. Feeling comfortable and at case, he walked through into the hotel’s smoking room, where he cut himself a yellow Krono and lit up. He’d have to ration the Kronos. They were not an item the worlds of Horakah imported. Well, there was an interesting lead there, already.

The man sitting in the low-slung spring chair watching the local station’s evening TV program was smoking a short, scarlet, pudgy cigar that smelled, when Caradine deliberately caught a whiff, like boiled and shredded radiation-burn pads. The TV was running some information program on the latest increase in rates of pay in the armed forces, and tying it in with a recruiting campaign. There were dramatic color shots of battleships passing in various fighting formations before a suitably artistic planetary background. Caradine had always preferred to review the fleets right out in interstellar space, where the grim gray battlewagons belonged.

Hell! All that was dead and gone; dust, alo. . .