James H. Schmitz - Dangerous Territory

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The Hub: Dangerous Territory

James H. Schmitz

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents

is purely coincidental.

“Grandpa” was first published in Astounding, February 1955; “The Other Likeness” was first published in Analog, July 1962; “The Winds of Time” was first

published in Analog, September 1962; “The Machmen” was first published in Analog, September 1964; “A Nice Day for Screaming” was first published in Analog,

January 1965; “Balanced Ecology” was first published in Analog, March 1965; “Trouble Tide” was first published in Analog, May 1965; “The Searcher” was first

published in Analog, February 1966; “Attitudes” was first published in Magazine of F&SF, February 1969; The Demon Breed was originally published as a two-part

serial in Analog (September-October, 1968), under the title “The Tuvela.” It was first published in book form by Ace Books in 1968.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31984-1

Cover art by Bob Eggleton

First printing, April 2001

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED . . .

Nile heard a series of clanging metallic sounds, partly muffled by the wind. Somebody was down there,

perhaps engaged in forcing open her aircar’s doors.

She waited, upper lip clamped between her teeth, heard no more. Then one end of the aircar edged into

view, turning slowly as if it were being pushed about. A moment later all of it suddenly appeared in the

open area—and on the canopy—

Nile’s thoughts blurred in shock.

Parahuans. . . .

Some seventy years ago, they’d come out of space to launch almost simultaneous attacks against

Nandy-Cline and a dozen other water worlds of the Hub. They’d done considerable damage, but in the end

their forces were pulled back; and it was believed that by the time the Federation’s warships finished

hunting them through space, only insignificant remnants had survived to return to their undiscovered

home worlds. It had been the last open attack by an alien civilization against a Federation planet—even

planets as far out from the Hub’s center as Nandy-Cline.

And we became careless, Nile thought. We felt we were so big no one would dare come again. . . .

IN THIS SERIES:

Telzey Amberdon

T’nT: Telzey & Trigger

Trigger & Friends

The Hub: Dangerous Territory

Baen Books by Eric Flint:

Mother of Demons

1632

The Philosophical Strangler (upcoming)

The Belisarius series, with David Drake:

An Oblique Approach

In the Heart of Darkness

Destiny’s Shield

Fortune’s Stroke

The Tide of Victory (upcoming)

with Dave Freer:

Rats, Bats & Vats

The Searcher

It was night in that part of the world of Mezmiali—deep night, for much of the sky was obscured by the dense cosmic

cloud called the Pit, little more than two light-years away. Overhead, only a scattering of nearby stars twinkled against the

sullen gloom of the cloud. Far to the east, its curving edges were limned in brilliance, for beyond it, still just below the

horizon, blazed the central sun clusters of the Hub.

The landscaped private spaceport was well lit but almost deserted. A number of small ships stood about in their

individual stations, and two watchmen on a pair of float scooters were making a tour of the grounds, moving along

unhurriedly twenty feet up in the air. They weren’t too concerned about intruders—the ships were locked and there was

little else of value around to steal. But their duties included inspecting the area every two hours, and they were doing it.

One of them checked his scooter suddenly, said through his mike, “Take a look at Twenty-two, will you!”

His companion turned his head in the indicated direction. The ship at Station Twenty-two was the largest one here at

present, an interstellar yacht which had berthed late in the afternoon, following an extensive pleasure cruise. He stared in

surprise, asked, “Nobody on board, is there?”

The first watchman was checking his list. “Not supposed to be until tomorrow. She’s getting a standard overhaul then.

What do you suppose that stuff is?”

The stuff he referred to looked like a stream of pale, purple fire welling silently out of the solid hull of the yacht, about

halfway up its side. It flowed down along the side of the ship, vanishing as it touched the ground—appeared actually to be

pouring on unchecked through the base of Station Twenty-two into the earth. Both men had glanced automatically at the

radiation indicators on the scooters and found them reassuringly inactive. But it was a puzzling, eerie sight.

“It’s new to me!” the other man said uneasily. “Better report it right away! There might be somebody on board, maybe

messing around with the engines. Wait a moment. It’s stopping!”

They looked on in silence as the last of the fiery flow slid down the yacht, disappeared soundlessly into the station’s

foundation.

The first watchman shook his head.

“I’ll call the super,” he said. “He’ll—”

A sharp whistling rose simultaneously from the two radiation indicators. Pale fire surged out of the ground beneath the

scooters, curved over them, enclosing the men and their vehicles. For a moment, the figures of the watchmen moved

convulsively in a shifting purple glow; then they appeared to melt, and vanished. The fire sank back to the ground, flowed

down into it. The piercing clamor of the radiation indicators faded quickly to a whisper and ended.

The scooters hung in the air, motionless, apparently undamaged. But the watchmen were gone.

Eighty yards underground, the goyal lay quiet while the section it had detached to assimilate the two humans who had

observed it as it left the ship returned and again became a part of it. It was a composite of billions of units, an entity now

energy, now matter, vastly extensible and mobile in space, comparatively limited in the heavy mediums of a planet. At the

moment, it was close to its densest material form, a sheet of unseen luminescence in the ground, sensor groups probing the

spaceport area to make sure there had been no other witnesses to its arrival on Mezmiali.

There appeared to have been none. The goyal began to drift underground toward a point on the surface of the planet

about a thousand miles away from the spaceport. . . .

And, about a thousand miles away, in the direction the goyal was heading, Danestar Gems raked dark-green fingernails

through her matching dark-green hair, and swore nervously at the little spy-screen she’d been manipulating.

Danestar was alone at the moment, in a small room of the University League’s Unclassified Specimens Depot on

Mezmiali. The Depot was composed of a group of large, heavily structured, rather ugly buildings, covering about the area

of an average village, which stood in the countryside far from any major residential sections. The buildings were over three

centuries old and enclosed as a unit by a permanent energy barrier, presenting to the world outside the appearance of a

somewhat flattened black dome which completely concealed the structures.

Originally, there had been a fortress on this site, constructed during a period when Mezmiali was subject to periodic

attacks by space raiders, human and alien. The ponderous armament of the fortress, designed to deal with such enemies,

had long since been dismantled; but the basic buildings remained, and the old energy barrier was the one still in use—a

thing of monstrous power, retained only because it had been simpler and less expensive to leave it in place than to remove

it.

Nowadays, the complex was essentially a warehouse area with automatic maintenance facilities, an untidy giant

museum of current and extinct galactic life and its artifacts. It stored mineral, soil, and atmosphere samples, almost

anything, in fact, that scientific expeditions, government exploration groups, prospectors, colonial workers, or adventuring

private parties were likely to pick up in space or on strange worlds and hand over to the University League as being

perhaps of sufficient interest to warrant detailed analysis of its nature and properties. For over a century, the League had

struggled—and never quite managed—to keep up with the material provided it for study in this manner. Meanwhile, the

specimens continued to come in and were routed into special depots for preliminary cataloging and storage. Most of them

would turn out to be without interest, or of interest only to the followers of some esoteric branch of science. A relatively

very small number of items, however, eventually might become very valuable, indeed, either because of the new scientific

information they would provide or because they could be commercially exploited, or both. Such items had a

correspondingly high immediate sales value as soon as their potential qualities were recognized.

Hence the Unclassified Specimens Depots were, in one way or another, well protected areas; none of them more

impressively so than the Mezmiali Depot. The lowering black barrier enclosing it also served to reassure the citizenry of

the planet when rumors arose, as they did periodically, that the Depot’s Life Bank vaults contained dormant alien

monstrosities such as human eyes rarely looked upon.

But mainly the barrier was there because the University League did not want some perhaps priceless specimens to be

stolen.

That was also why Danestar Gems was there.

Danestar was a long-waisted, lithe, beautiful girl, dressed severely in a fitted black coverall suit and loose short white

jacket, the latter containing numerous concealed pockets for the tools and snooping devices with which she worked. The

wide ornamental belt enclosing the suit under the jacket similarly carried almost indetectable batteries of tiny control

switches. Her apparently frivolous penchant for monocolor make-up—dark-green at the moment: green hair and lashes,

green eyes, lips, nails, all precisely the same shade—was part of the same professional pattern. The hair was a wig, like a

large flowing helmet, designed for Danestar personally, with exquisite artistry, by a stylist of interstellar fame; but beneath

its waves was a mass of miniature gadgetry, installed with no less artistry by Danestar herself. On another day, or another

job, depending on the purpose she was pursuing, the wig and other items might be sea-blue, scarlet, or a somewhat

appalling pale-pink. Her own hair was dark brown, cut short. In most respects, Danestar actually was a rather conservative

girl.

For the past ten minutes, she had been trying unsuccessfully to contact her colleague, Corvin Wergard. Wergard’s last

report, terminated abruptly, had reached her from another section of the Depot. He’d warned her that a number of armed

men were trying to close in on him there and that it would be necessary for him to take prompt evasive action.

Danestar Gems and Corvin Wergard were employees of the Kyth Interstellar Detective Agency, working in the Depot

on a secret assignment for University League authorities. Officially, they had been sent here two weeks before as

communications technicians who were to modernize the Depot’s antiquated systems. Danestar was, as a matter of fact, a

communications expert, holding an advanced degree in the subject. Corvin Wergard had a fair working knowledge of

communication systems; but they were not his specialty. He was a picklock in the widest sense. Keeping him out of a place

he wanted to get into or look into was a remarkably difficult thing to do.

Their working methods differed considerably. Danestar was an instrument girl. The instruments she favored were

cobwebby miniatures; disassembled, all fitted comfortably into a single flat valise which went wherever Danestar did. Most

of them she had built herself, painstakingly and with loving care like a fly fisherman creating the gossamer tools of his

hobby. Next to them, their finest commercial equivalents looked crude and heavy—not too surprisingly, since Danestar’s

instruments were designed to be handled only by her own slender, extremely deft fingers. On an operation, she went about,

putting out ten, twenty, fifty or a hundred eyes and ears, along with such other sensors, telltales, and recorders of utterly

inhuman type as were required by the circumstances, cutting in on established communication lines and setting up her own,

masked by anti-antispying devices. In many cases, of course, her touch had to be imperceptible; and it almost always was.

She was a confirmed snoop, liked her work, and was very good at it.

Wergard’s use of tools, on the other hand, was restricted to half a dozen general-utility items, not particularly superior

to what might be expected of the equipment of any enterprising and experienced burglar. He simply knew locks and the

methods used to protect them against tampering or to turn them into deadly traps inside and out; and, by what might have

been in part an intuitive process of which he was unaware, he knew what to do about them, whether they were of a type

with which he was familiar or not, almost in the instant he encountered them. To observers, he sometimes appeared to pass

through the ordinary run of locked doors without pausing. Concealed alarms and the like might delay him a minute or two;

but he rarely ran into any contrivance of the sort that could stop him completely.

The two had been on a number of previous assignments together and made a good team. Between them, the

Unclassified Specimens Depot became equipped with a satisfactorily comprehensive network of Danestar’s espionage

devices within twenty-four hours after their arrival.

At that point, a number of complications made themselves evident.

Their principal target here was the director of the Depot, Dr. Hishkan. The University League had reason to believe—

though it lacked proof—that several items which should have been in the Depot at present were no longer there. It was

possible that the fault lay with the automatic storage, recording, and shipping equipment; in other words, that the

apparently missing items were simply not in their proper place and would eventually be found. The probability, however,

was that they had been clandestinely removed from the Depot and disposed of for profit.

In spite of the Depot’s size, only twenty-eight permanent employees worked there, all of whom were housed in the

Depot itself. If any stealing was going on, a number of these people must be involved in it. Among them, Dr. Hishkan

alone appeared capable of selecting out of the vast hodgepodge of specimens those which would have a genuine value to

interested persons outside the University League. The finger of suspicion was definitely pointed at him.

That made it a difficult and delicate situation. Dr. Hishkan had a considerable reputation as a man of science and friends

in high positions within the League. Unquestionable proof of his guilt must be provided before accusations could be

made. . . .

Danestar and Corvin Wergard went at the matter unhurriedly, feeling their way. They would have outside assistance

available if needed but had limited means of getting information out of the Depot. Their private transmitter could not drive

a message through the energy barrier, hence could be used at most for a short period several times a day when airtrucks or

space shuttles passed through the entrance lock. The Depot’s communicators were set up to work through the barrier, but

they were in the main control station near the entrance lock and under observation around the clock.

Two things became clear almost immediately. The nature of their assignment here was suspected, if not definitely

known; and every U-League employee in the Depot, from Dr. Hishkan on down, was involved in the thefts. It was not

random pilfering but a well-organized operation with established outside contacts and with connections in the League to tip

them off against investigators.

Except for Wergard’s uncanny ability to move unnoticed about an area with which he had familiarized himself almost

as he chose, and Danestar’s detection-proof instrument system, their usefulness in the Depot would have been over before

they got started. But within a few days, they were picking up significant scraps of information. Dr. Hishkan did not intend

to let their presence interfere with his activities; he had something going on too big to postpone until the supposed

communications technicians gave up here and left. In fact, the investigation was forcing him to rush his plans through,

since he might now be relieved of his position as head of the Depot at any time, on general suspicions alone.

They continued with the modernization of the communications systems, and made respectable progress there. It was a

three months’ job, so there was no danger they would get done too quickly with it. During and between work periods,

Danestar watched, listened, recorded; and Wergard prowled. The conspirators remained on guard. Dr. Hishkan left the

Depot for several hours three times in two weeks. He was not trailed outside, to avoid the chance of a slip which might

sharpen his suspicions. The plan was to let him make his arrangements, then catch him in the act of transferring University

League property out of the Depot and into the hands of his contacts. In other respects, he was carrying out his duties as

scientific director in an irreproachable manner.

They presently identified the specimen which Dr. Hishkan appeared to be intending to sell this time. It seemed an

unpromising choice, by its looks a lump of asteroid material which might weigh around half a ton. But Dr. Hishkan

evidently saw something in it, for it had been taken out of storage and was being kept in a special vault near his office in

the main Depot building. The vault was left unguarded—presumably so as not to lead to speculations about its contents—

but had an impressive series of locks, which Wergard studied reflectively one night for several minutes before opening

them in turn in a little less than forty seconds. He planted a number of Danestar’s observation devices in the vault, locked it

up again and went away.

The devices, in their various ways, presently took note of the fact that Dr. Hishkan, following his third trip outside the

Depot, came into the vault and remained occupied for over an hour with the specimen. His activities revealed that the thing

was an artifact, that the thick shell of the apparent asteroid chunk could be opened in layers within which nestled a variety

of instruments. Hishkan did something with the instruments which created a brief but monstrous blast of static in

Danestar’s listening recorders.

As the next supplies truck left the Depot, Danestar beamed a shortcode message through the open barrier locks to their

confederates outside, alerting them for possibly impending action and describing the object which would be smuggled out.

Next day, she received an acknowledgment by the same route, including a summary of two recent news reports. The static

blast she had described apparently had been picked up at the same instant by widely scattered instruments as much as a

third of the way through the nearest Hub cluster. There was some speculation about its source, particularly—this was the

subject of the earlier report—because a similar disturbance had been noted approximately three weeks before, showing the

same mysteriously widespread pattern of simultaneous occurrence.

Wergard, meanwhile, had dug out and copied the Depot record of the item’s history. It had been picked up in the fringes

of the cosmic dust cloud of the Pit several years earlier by the only surviving ship of a three-vessel U-League expedition,

brought back because it was emitting a very faint, irregular trickle of radiation, and stored in the Unclassified Specimens

Depot pending further investigation. The possibility that the radiation might be coming from instruments had not occurred

to anybody until Dr. Hishkan took a closer look at the asteroid from the Pit.

“Floating in space,” Danestar said thoughtfully. “So it’s a signaling device. An alien signaling device. Probably

belonging to whatever’s been knocking off Hub ships in the Pit.”

“Apparently,” Wergard said. He added, “Our business here, of course, is to nail Hishkan and stop the thieving. . . . ”

“Of course,” Danestar said. “But we can’t take a chance on this thing’s getting lost. The Federation has to have it. It will

tell them more about who built it, what they’re like, than they’ve ever found out since they began to suspect there’s

something actively hostile in the Pit.”

Wergard looked at her consideringly. Over two hundred ships, most of them Federation naval vessels, had disappeared

during the past eighty years in attempts to explore the dense cosmic dust cloud near Mezmiali. Navigational conditions in

the Pit were among the worst known. Its subspace was a seething turmoil of energies into which no ship could venture.

Progress in normal space was a matter of creeping blindly through a murky medium stretching out for twelve light-years

ahead where contact with other ships and with stations beyond the cloud was almost instantly lost. A number of

expeditions had worked without mishap in the outer fringes of the Pit, but ships attempting penetration in depth simply did

not return. A few fragmentary reports indicated the Pit concealed inimical intelligent forces along with natural hazards.

Wergard said, “I remember now . . . you had a brother on one of the last Navy ships lost there, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Danestar said. “Eight years ago. I was wild about him—I thought I’d never get over it. The ship sent out a

report that its personnel was being wiped out by what might be a radiation weapon. That’s the most definite word they’ve

ever had about what happens there. And that’s the last they heard of the ship.”

“All right,” Wergard said. “That makes it a personal matter. I understand that. And it makes sense to have the thing

wind up in the hands of the military scientists. But I don’t want to louse up our operation.”

“It needn’t be loused up,” Danestar said. “You’ve got to get me into the vault, Wergard. Tonight, if possible. I’ll need

around two hours to study the thing.”

“Two hours?” Wergard looked doubtful.

“Yes. I want a look at what it’s using for power to cut through standard static shielding, not to mention the Depot’s

force barrier. And I probably should make duplos of at least part of the system.”

“The section patrol goes past there every hour,” Wergard said. “You’ll be running a chance of getting caught.”

“Well, you see to it that I don’t,” Danestar told him.

Wergard grunted. “All right,” he said. “Can do.”

She spent her two hours in Dr. Hishkan’s special vault that night, told Wergard afterwards, “It’s a temporal distorter, of

course. A long-range communicator in the most simple form—downright primitive. At a guess, a route marker for ships. A

signaling device. . . . It picks up impulses, can respond with any one of fourteen signal patterns. Hishkan apparently tripped

the lot of them in those blasts. I don’t think he really knew what he was doing.”

“That should be really big stuff commercially, then,” Wergard remarked.

“Decidedly! On the power side, it’s forty percent more efficient than the best transmitters I’ve heard about. Nothing

primitive there! Whoever got his hands on the thing should be able to give the ComWeb system the first real competition

it’s had. . . . ”

She added, “But this is the most interesting part. Wergard, that thing is old! It’s an antique. At a guess, it hasn’t been

used or serviced within the past five centuries. Obviously, it’s still operational—the central sections are so well shielded

they haven’t been affected much. Other parts have begun to fall apart or have vanished. That’s a little bit sinister, wouldn’t

you say?”

Wergard looked startled. “Yes, I would. If they had stuff five hundred years ago better in some respects than the most

sophisticated systems we have today . . . ”

“In some rather important respects, too,” Danestar said. “I didn’t get any clues to it, but there’s obviously a principle

embodied designed to punch an impulse through all the disturbances of the Pit. If our ships had that . . . ”

“All right,” Wergard said. “I see it. But let’s set it up to play Dr. Hishkan into our hands besides. How about this—you

put out a shortcode description at the first opportunity of what you’ve found and what it seems to indicate. Tell the boys to

get the information to Federation agents at once.”

Danestar nodded. “Adding that we’ll go ahead with our plans as they are, but they’re to stand by outside to make sure

the gadget doesn’t get away if there’s a slip-up?”

“That’s what I had in mind,” Wergard agreed. “The Feds should cooperate—we’re handing them the thing on a platter.”

He left, and Danestar settled down to prepare the message for transmission. It was fifteen minutes later, just before

she’d finished with it, that Wergard’s voice informed her over their private intercom that the entry lock in the energy

barrier had been opened briefly to let in a space shuttle and closed again.

“I wouldn’t bet,” he said, “that this one’s bringing in specimens or supplies. . . . ” He paused, added suddenly, “Look

out for yourself! There’re boys with guns sneaking into this section from several sides. I’ll have to move. Looks like the

word’s been given to pick us up!”

Danestar heard his instrument snap off. She swore softly, turned on a screen showing the area of the lock. The shuttle

stood there, a sizable one. Men were coming out of it. It clearly hadn’t been bringing in supplies or specimens.

Danestar stared at it, biting her lip. In another few hours, they would have been completely prepared for this! The

airtruck which brought supplies from the city every two days would have come and left during that time; and as the lock

opened for it, her signal to set up the trap for the specimen smugglers would have been received by the Kyth Agency men

waiting within observation range of the Depot. Thirty minutes later, any vehicle leaving the Depot without being given a

simultaneous shortcode clearance by her would be promptly intercepted and searched.

But now, suddenly, they had a problem. Not only were the smugglers here, they had come prepared to take care of the

two supposed technicians the U-League had planted in the Depot to spy on Dr. Hishkan. She and Corvin Wergard could

make themselves very difficult to find; but if they couldn’t be located, the instrument from the Pit would be loaded on the

shuttle and the thieves would be gone again with it, probably taking Dr. Hishkan and one or two of his principal U-League

confederates along. Danestar’s warning message would go out as they left, but that was cutting it much too fine! A space

shuttle of that type was fast and maneuverable, and this one probably carried effective armament. There was a chance the

Kyth operators outside would be able to capture it before it rejoined its mother ship and vanished from the Mezmiali

System—but the chance was not at all a good one.

No, she decided, Dr. Hishkan’s visitors had to be persuaded to stay around a while, or the entire operation would go

down the drain. Switching on half a dozen other screens, she set recorders to cover them, went quickly about the room

making various preparations to meet the emergency, came back to her worktable, completed the message to their

confederates and fed it into a small shortcode transmitter. The transmitter vanished into a deep wall recess it shared with a

few other essential devices. Danestar settled down to study the screens, in which various matters of interest could now be

observed, while she waited with increasing impatience for Wergard to call in again.

More minutes passed before he did, and she’d started checking over areas in the Depot where he might have gone with

the spy-screen. Then his face suddenly appeared in the instrument.

“Clear of them now,” he said. “They got rather close for a while. Nobody’s tried to bother you yet?”

“No,” said Danestar. “But our Depot manager and three men from the shuttle came skulking along the hall a minute or

two ago. They’re waiting outside the door.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For you to show up.”

“They know you’re in the room?” Wergard asked.

“Yes. One of them has a life detector.”

“The group that’s looking around for me has another of the gadgets,” Wergard said. “That’s why it took so long to

shake them. I’m in a sneaksuit now. You intend to let them take you?”

“That’s the indicated move,” Danestar said. “Everything’s set up for it. Let me brief you. . . . ”

The eight men who had come off the shuttle belonged to a smuggling ring which would act as middleman in the

purchase of the signaling device from the Pit. They’d gone directly to Dr. Hishkan’s office in the Depot’s main building,

and Danestar had a view of the office in one of her wall screens when they arrived. The specimen already had been brought

out of the vault, and she’d been following their conversation about it.

Volcheme, the chief of the smugglers, and his assistant, Galester, who appeared to have had scientific training, showed

the manner of crack professionals. They were efficient businessmen who operated outside the law as a calculated risk

because it paid off. This made dealing with them a less uncertain matter than if they had been men of Dr. Hishkan’s

caliber—intelligent, amoral, but relatively inexperienced amateurs in crime. Amateurs with a big-money glint in their eyes

and guns in their hands were unpredictable, took very careful handling. Volcheme and Galester, on the other hand, while

not easy to bluff, could be counted on to think and act logically under pressure.

Danestar was planning to put on considerable pressure.

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摘要：

TheHub:DangerousTerritoryJamesH.SchmitzThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.“Grandpa”wasfirstpublishedinAstounding,February1955;“TheOtherLikeness”wasfirstpublishedinAnalog,July1962;“TheWindsofTime”w...

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