Secret of the Stars Read Free Page A

rid of the drifters and those outside the law on the civilized worlds, and second, it helped to open new planets. Thus both problems were settled to the satisfaction of all but the victims, who had no political power anyway.
    Haggy had passed through another door ahead; now it was Joktar’s turn. The barman was in the process of stripping off his gaudy clothing under the supervision of a bored medic.
    “All right, you there,” the same man spoke to Joktar, “strip.”
    Joktar regarded him mutinously. They had relaxed the tangle-field, but if he tried to jump the medic, they would slap it on again and they could tighten those lines of invisible energy to choke the breath out of a man’s lungs. No use fighting when there wasn’t the smallest chance to win. He dropped his jacket, unwound his belt sash. No chance to palm anything since they must have a spy-spot on him. But, as his shirt followed his jacket, the dealer’s hand went to the disc hanging on a chain about his throat.
    “Hand that over, you!” the medic was alert.
    For the first time since the momentary panic upon his awakening in the pens, Joktar’s control came close to snapping. He stood breathing a little raggedly. The medic clasped one hand into a fist and Joktar staggered, bit his lip against an answering cry. That vicious squeeze of the tangle was a warning. He tossed the disc to the medic, who allowed it to fall to the floor and kicked it away spinning.
    So he was processed after Haggy, run through the examination machines, his brain busy with escape plans as impossible as they were fleeting. Then, wearing a coverall of coarse red stuff, vividly visible, he was steered into a cell with five others, all strangers.
    They were fed from mess kits slid through a wall panel. And there was little talk among them. These were all young, Joktar noted, but of the drifter class, spineless hangers-on such as could be picked up by the hundred in the streets. He squatted back on a bench, the mess tin on his knee.
    “Hey!” one of his cellmates sidled down the bench. “You worked for Kern, didn’t you?” There was a malicious twist to his half-grin. The gap between his sort and a man who was employed in one of the big spots was an ocean wide.
    “Me, I usta run for Lafty ’fore he got wiped off the books,” he added in a spurt of half-defiance. “Saw you in the SunSpot layin’ ’em out. Think Kern’ll unpocket for you now?” His grin grew wider.
    Joktar shrugged, chewing methodically at the tasteless mess on his plate.
    “Kern got wiped proper,” one of the others raised his head to sputter through a full mouth. “Saw four—five of his men being run through here.”
    That could be true. Though how such a coup could have been managed with runners and spotters planted to prevent just such a catastrophe Joktar did not understand. This report dimmed his one small hope of rescue. Kern himself might be in the pens now. Who was behind it, Norwold?
    “Anybody heard where they’re fixing to send us?” The thin voice shook a little.
    “Ship in port bound for Avar,” volunteered the ex-runner.
    “Yeah? What’s Avar, anybody know?” another of the captives asked.
    “Field work,” someone answered, but he didn’t sound too convincing and Joktar was sure that was a guess. Perhaps because field work could be preferred over labor in a mine.
    The ex-runner gave a laugh which was close to a snarl. “Don’t matter much, burnout—you goes where you is sent. No pickin’ or choosin’. You ain’t no colonist. When you lands here your luck is out anyway.”
    That was only too true. Someone sighed and Joktar finished the last of his food.
    “They freezes you, don’t they?” the quavering voice asked.
    “Sure thing,” the ex-runner responded with a ghoulish relish. “No room in an E-ship to have you sittin’ round eatin’ your fat head off. Stick some needles full of goop in a fella, make him stiff as a board, and bed him down in a hold. He’ll keep