The Lani People, Jesse F. Bone [best reads TXT] 📗

wrapped protectingly around her legs—the fetal position of catatonic shock.

He shook her shoulder—no response. Her pulse was thready and irregular. Her breathing was shallow. Her lips were blue. Her condition was obvious—space shock—extreme grade. She’d need medical attention if she was going to live. And she’d need it fast!

“Just why, you educated nitwit,” he snarled at himself, “didn’t you have sense enough to give her that injection of Sonmol before we hypered! You haven’t the sense of a decerebrate Capellan grackle!”

He turned on the radio. “Emergency!” he said. “Any station! Space-shock case aboard. Extreme urgency.”

“Identify yourself—give your license. Over.”

“What port are you?”

“Hunterstown—will you please identify? Over.”

“Your co-ordinates,” Kennon snapped. “Over.”

“280.45—67.29 plus. Repeat—request your identification.”

“Pilot Kennon, Jac, Beta 47M 26429. I have no I.D. for the ship—and you’ll see why when I land. Over.”

“Hunterstown Port to Kennon. You are not—repeat not—cleared to land. Go into orbit and report your position. Over.”

“Sorry, Hunterstown. You wouldn’t have checked in if you didn’t have room, and a hospital. This is an emergency. I’m setting down. Out.”

“But—” The words got no farther. Kennon was already spinning the ship.

“All right—we have you on the scope. But this is a class one violation. You may come in on Landing Beam One.”

“Sorry. I have no GCA.”

“What?—what sort of ship are you flying?” The voice was curious.

“I’m matching intrinsics over your port. Talk me in when I break through the overcast.”

“Talk you in?”

“That’s right. My instruments are obsolete.”

“Great Halstead! What else?”

“I have an Ion drive. Plus two radioactive.”

“Oh no!—And you still want to come in?”

“I have to. My passenger’s in shock. She’s going to have a baby.”

“All right—I’ll try to get you down in one piece.”

“Have an ambulance ready,” Kennon said.

Kennon lowered the Egg through the overcast. Ground control picked him up smoothly and took him down as though it had been rehearsed. The Egg touched down in the radioactive area of the port. Decontamination jets hissed, sluicing the ship to remove surface contamination.

“Ochsner! what sort of a ship is that?” Ground Control’s startled voice came over the annunciator.

“It’s an old one,” Kennon said.

“That’s a gross understatement. Stand by for boarders. Ambulance coming up.”

Kennon opened the airlock and two radiation-suited men entered. “At least you had sense enough to wear protective clothing in this hotbox,” one said as they carefully unwebbed Copper and carried her out of the lock. “You wait here. The Port Captain wants to see you.”

“Where are you taking her? What Center?” Kennon asked.

“What should you care? You’ve nearly killed her. The idea of taking a pregnant woman up in this death trap! What in Fleming’s name’s the matter with your brain?”

“I had to,” Kennon said. “I had to. It was a matter of life and death.” For once, he thought wryly, the cliche was true.

The Betan’s face behind the transparent helmet was disgusted and unbelieving. “I hear that sort of thing every day,” he said. “Am I supposed to believe it?”

“You’d believe it if you’d have been where I was,” Kennon muttered. “Now—whe’re are you taking her?” he demanded.

The man arched blond eyebrows. “To the local Medical Center—where else? There’s only one in this area.”

“Thanks,” Kennon said.

He watched the ambulance flit off as he waited for the Spaceport Patrol. There was no further need for the protection suit, so he peeled it off and hung it in the control-room locker. Copper was right, he mused. It did itch.

The Port Captain’s men were late as usual—moving gingerly through the radiation area. A noncom gestured for him to enter their carryall. “Port Captain wants to see you,” he said.

“I know,” Kennon replied.

“You should have waited upstairs.”

“I couldn’t. It was a matter of medicine,” Kennon said.

The noncom’s face sobered. “Why didn’t you say so? All you said was that it was an emergency.”

“I’ve been away. I forgot.”

“You shouldn’t have done that. You’re a Betan, aren’t you?”

Kennon nodded.

They drove to the Port Office, where Kennon expected—and got—a bad time from the port officials. He filled out numerous forms, signed affidavits, explained his unauthorized landing, showed his spaceman’s ticket, defended his act of piloting without an up-to-date license, signed more forms, entered a claim for salvage rights to the Egg, and finally when the Legal Division, the Traffic Control Division, the Spaceport Safety Office, Customs, Immigration, and Travelers Aid had finished with him, he was ushered into the presence of the Port Captain.

The red-faced chunky officer eyed him with a cold stare. “You’ll be lucky, young man, if you get out of this with a year in Correction. Your story doesn’t hang together.”

It didn’t, Kennon thought. But there was no sense telling all of it to a Port Captain. Under no circumstances could the man be any help to him. He had neither the power nor the prestige to request a Brotherhood Board of Inquiry. In rank, he was hardly more than a glorified Traffic Control officer. It would do no good to tell him an improbable tale of slavery on a distant planet. The only thing to do was wait out the storm and hope it would pass. If worst came to worst he’d use his rank, but he’d made enough stir already. He doubted if the Captain had authority to order him into Detention—but he was certain to get a lecture. These minor officials loved to tell someone off. He gritted his teeth. He’d endure it for Copper’s sake—and to get out of here quietly. Alexander would undoubtedly have agents posted by now, and his only chance for temporary freedom of action was to get out of here with as little fuss as possible.

He sat quietly, his flushed face and tight jaw muscles betraying his impatience as the Captain paced up and down and talked on and on. The man sounded like he could go for hours. With increasing impatience Kennon listened to the cadenced flow of complaint and condemnation, occasionally inserting a “Yes, sir” or “Sorry, sir” or “No, sir” as the words flowed