Free S.T.A.R. FLIGHT by E.C. Tubb Page B

Preston humbly. He was beginning to understand. The Kaltich were human in their rivalries. “I lost my head,” he confessed. “I didn’t think of what I was doing. I deeply regret any inconvenience I may have caused. My punishment was more than just.” His voice was husky, strained from his recent ordeal.
    Mollified, the gamma allowed himself to relax. “All right, Tonach. I understand. These local women …” He made an expressive gesture, “But rules are not made to be broken.”
    “I realise that, sir.”
    “You seem to have the correct attitude and that is to your credit,” mused Keyman. “I don’t think this need go any further.”
    “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.” Pile it on, thought Preston savagely. Be humble, eat dirt, but keep him happy.
    “I’m returning you to duty,” the gamma decided. “Your back will be sore for a while, but that can’t be helped. You will also have to work an extra turn to make up for the time you were incommoded. I imagine,” he said dryly, “that it seemed a long ten days.”
    It had seemed an eternity. “Very long, sir,” said Preston. “I can assure you sir, that it will never happen again.” Not, he mentally added, if I have to kill every last dammed one of you.
    “That’s the spirit,” said Keyman. “Now report for duty.”
    His luck held. Those who had been close to the original Tonach, the ones he had worked with and with whom he had gone on vacation, were no longer at the Gate. They had been moved elsewhere. Or perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t luck at all. Perhaps it had been a part of the plan. So far STAR had managed things well. Aside from the beating, of course, He could never forgive them for that.
    The duty was simple and left plenty of time for thought. He had to check deliveries against manifests, a thing any bright moron could have done without difficulty, certainly the epsilon-alpha who was in charge of the unloading crews. It’s the system, he thought. Caste dictates who should do what. They unload, handle the crates, do the heavy work. I oversee. And investigate. That’s why I’m here. Well, he told himself, get on with it. You’re in. So far you’ve been accepted and are safe. Now make the Kaltich pay for what they’ve done.
    And he reminded himself, earn two million units for doing it.
    Gammas didn’t run the Gate. There were four of them working in six-hour turns of duty. Above them were two betas and somewhere was an alpha in supreme charge. The epsilons were the labour force; they carried no whips. The nulls did the dirty work. They were the wardens, the guards,the military police. Like the epsilons they carried no whips but bore arms instead.
    So much STAR had verified from Tonach and what they had learned Preston knew. It wasn’t enough. I’m like a noncommissioned officer, he thought. I can move around and I know enough of the system to play the part, but that’s about all. The real secret, the important thing, I don’t know. Would an ordinary NCO have known about the workings of a military computor? As yet he hadn’t seen the Gate and, apparently, neither had Tonach. And that didn’t make sense. The man had travelled through it; he must have known that at least. He had known it, Preston decided. Known it and, somehow, been prevented from relaying the information. Hypnosis, he thought. A fine tool — if you know exactly what questions to ask and how to ask them.
    Irritably he slammed the door of his room. It was a comfortable room, the furnishings luxurious, the little, personal things showing a regard for fine quality. A record player and a stack of records. A projector and a heap of film. A fine camera. A collection of expensive liqueurs, some familiar, others not. A peculiar device with a helmet-like attachment and a studded keyboard. A transparent jar in which drifted slowly twisting strands of living crystal, growing, changing, a mobile kaleidoscope of shimmering colour. A three-dimensional photograph of a