Laumer, Keith - Legions of Space

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LEGIONS OF SPACE

KEITH LAUMER

edited & compiled by

ERIC FLINT

preface by

JOEL ROSENBERG

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.

A Trace of Memory was first published as a serialized story in Amazing

magazine (July–September 1962) and then reissued as a novel by Berkley

in 1963. Planet Run was first published in 1967 by Doubleday. "The

Choice" was first published in Analog in July, 1969. "Three Blind Mice"

was first published in The Many Worlds of Science Fiction (Ben Bova,

ed.), E.P. Dutton, 1971. "Mind Out of Time" was first published as "The

Mind Out of Time" in The Farthest Reaches (Joseph Elder, ed.), Trident

1968. "Message to an Alien" was first published in Analog in June, 1970.

thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-8855-5

Cover art by Jeff Easley

First printing, October 2004

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH (www.windhaven.com)

Printed in the United States of America

Baen Books by Keith Laumer

edited by Eric Flint:

Retief!

Odyssey

Keith Laumer: The Lighter Side

A Plague of Demons & Other Stories

Future Imperfect

Legions of Space

The Bolo Series:

The Compleat Bolo by Keith Laumer

Created by Keith Laumer:

The Honor of the Regiment

The Unconquerable

The Triumphant by David Weber & Linda Evans

Last Stand

Old Guard

Cold Steel

Bolo Brigade by William H. Keith, Jr.

Bolo Rising by William H. Keith, Jr.

Bolo Strike by William H. Keith, Jr.

ALL ABOARD!

"And now," I said, "we're a couple of hundred feet under Stonehenge, and you're

telling me you'll be nine hundred on your next birthday."

"Remember the entry in the journal, Legion?" Foster said. "'I came to the place of the

Hunters, and it was a place I knew of old, and there was no hive, but a Pit built by men of

the Two Worlds . . ."

I glanced at the screen. "Here's another big number for you. That object on the screen

is at an altitude—give or take a few percent—of thirty thousand miles." A pattern of dots

flashed across the screen, faded, flashed again. . . . Foster watched the screen, saying

nothing.

"I don't like that thing blinking at us," I said. I looked at the big red button beside the

screen. Without waiting to think it over, I jabbed at it. On the screen, the red blip

separated, a smaller blip moving off at right angles to the main mass.

"It looks like I've launched a bomb from the ship overhead," I said in a strained voice.

The climb back up the tunnel took three hours, and every foot of the way I was

listening to a refrain in my head: This may be it; this may be it; this may be . . .

I crawled out of the tunnel mouth, then grabbed Foster's arm and pointed overhead.

"What's that?"

Foster looked up. A brilliant point of blue light, brighter than a star, grew perceptibly

as we watched. "That's no bomb," he said. "It's coming down slowly . . . like a—"

We watched as the vessel settled into place dead center on the ancient ring of stones.

A slit of yellow light appeared on the side of the hull, then it widened to a square. A

ladder extended itself, dropping down to touch the ground.

"If somebody with tentacles starts down that ladder," I said, in an unnaturally shrill

voice, "I'm getting out of here."

"No one will emerge," Foster said quietly. "I think we'll find, Legion, that this ship of

space is at our disposal."

—from A Trace of Memory

Preface

by Joel Rosenberg

During a time when some major writer first makes his—or, rarely, her—splash in SF,

like some star flaring suddenly into a nova, there's an understandable tendency to let your

eyes get dazzled by that, and not quite see the other stars that burn, stably if not nearly so

visibly, year after year.

Or, to try analogy instead of metaphor—the field is created not just by the work of the

master, but by the journeyman, as well.

Like, say, Keith Laumer, one of the great journeyman writers of the field, although

that's sometimes hard to remember. The Retief stories have made such a strong impact

and provided so many good catch-phrases ("I thought the nuances were the best part" is

my own favorite) that it's sometimes easy to forget the other stories, and when people

think of other Laumer stories, all too often, they're thinking of the Bolo stories, and

stopping there.

Which is a shame. Those less well-known stories are a whole lot of fun, in fact, and

well worth the bother. Sure; looking back in time, the early sixties are much more marked

by Stranger in a Strange Land, The Man in the High Castle, Glory Road and Dune than A

Trace of Memory—but that's not the point; the workmanlike Laumer story is still a fun

ride more than forty years later.

You'll see some of the same things over and over again, and frankly, some of them

can be annoying—like the always-similar tough-guy talk, which does wear pretty thin on

early twenty-first-century ears. But more, you'll see the details—Laumer was always

obsessed with the details of how things are done, whether it's climbing a wall, or escaping

from being entombed. And if Heinlein had his Competent Man, and Poul Anderson his

Man Who Counts, Laumer has his Guy Who Gets Things Done, and it's always fun to

watch that theme get played out, over and over again, in all sorts of different variations.

Like these stories.

Oh, they're not without flaws. There's a few things just plain wrong with A Trace of

Memory, for example. It's really just too much story for a 66,000-word novel, for one,

and, geez, having a character "My Name is Legion," when it turns out that, well, that's

just the character's name? There's a few more flaws that I'm sure are there, but can't quite

name.

Flaws and all, and it's classic Laumer: a character who, once started, just won't give

up, even when he's not always sure what it is that he's refusing to give up, and it's about

time it got back into print for a whole new generation or two who missed it the first time.

Without giving anything away, I think that I know the old joke that Laumer was

working from in writing "The Choice"—and it's not a bad joke. Just light, although

there's some echoes of the minor characters in the Retief stories, who just can't think

things through.

"Three Blind Mice," "Mind Out of Time," and "Message to an Alien" are all worth

reading, as classic Laumer—and if you think that the latter story doesn't have some

implications for modern politics, think again. Please think again.

The real gem, though, in this collection is Planet Run, written with Gordy Dickson.

It's hard to say enough good about this one; it's got both Laumer's and Gordy's strengths,

but blended so seamlessly that it's just about impossible to say who wrote what. I would

have thought that the Kipling reference was Gordy's, but I have it on the best authority

that bringing it in was Laumer's idea; Gordy and I discussed the story over lunch one day.

When people write the history of science fiction, they understandably tend to focus on

the novas and supernovas of the field—Heinlein, Doc Smith, Niven & Pournelle, Varley,

Gibson, and Vinge. And that's understandable.

For me, there's lots to be learned and a lot of fun to be had from going back and

spending an afternoon with an accomplished journeyman writer like Keith Laumer, and

I'm glad I did.

You'll be glad, too. Enjoy.

—Joel Rosenberg

A TRACE OF MEMORY

Prologue

He awoke and lay for a moment looking up at a low ceiling, dimly visible in a faint

red glow, feeling the hard mat under his back. He turned his head, saw a wall and a panel

on which a red indicator light glared.

He swung his legs over the side of the narrow couch and sat up. The room was small,

grey-painted, unadorned. Pain throbbed in his forearm. He shook back the loose sleeve of

the strange purple garment, saw a pattern of tiny punctures in the skin. He recognized the

mark of a feeding Hunter . . . Who would have dared?

A dark shape on the floor caught his eye. He slid from the couch, knelt by the still

body of a man in a purple tunic stained black with blood. Gently he rolled the body onto

its back.

Ammaerln!

He seized the limp wrist. There was a faint pulse. He rose—and saw a second body

and, near the door, two more. Quickly, he went to each . . .

All three were dead, hideously slashed. Only Ammaerln still breathed, faintly.

He went to the door, shouted into the darkness. The ranged shelves of a library gave

back a brief echo. He turned back to the grey-walled room, noticed a recording monitor

against a wall. He fitted the neurodes to the dying man's temples. But for this gesture of

recording Ammaerln's life's memories, there was nothing he could do. He must get him to

a therapist—and quickly.

He crossed the library, found a great echoing hall beyond. This was not the Sapphire

Palace beside the Shallow Sea. The lines were unmistakable: he was aboard a ship, a far-

voyager. Why? How? He stood uncertain. The silence was absolute.

He crossed the Great Hall and entered the observation lounge. Here lay another dead

man, by his uniform a member of the crew. He touched a knob and the great screens

glowed blue. A giant crescent swam into focus, locked; soft blue against the black of

space. Beyond it a smaller companion hung, gray-blotched, airless. What worlds were

these?

* * *

An hour later he had ranged the vast ship from end to end. In all, seven corpses,

cruelly slashed, peopled the silent vessel. In the control sector the communicator lights

glowed, but to his call there was no answer from the strange world below.

He turned to the recording room. Ammaerln still breathed weakly. The memory

recording had been completed; all that the dying man remembered of his long life was

imprinted now in the silver cylinder. It remained only to color-code the trace.

His eyes were caught by a small cylinder projecting from the aperture at the side of

the high couch where he had awakened—his own memory trace! So he himself had

undergone the Change. He took the color-banded cylinder, thrust it into a pocket—then

whirled at a sound. A nest of Hunters, swarming globes of pale light, clustered at the

door. Then they were on him. They pressed close, humming in their eagerness. Without

the proper weapon he was helpless.

He caught up the limp body of Ammaerln. With the Hunters trailing in a luminous

stream he ran with his burden to the shuttle-boat bay.

Three shuttles lay in their cradles. He groped to a switch, his head swimming with the

sulfurous reek of the Hunters; light flooded the bay, driving them back. He entered the

lifeboat, placed the dying man on a cushioned couch.

It had been long since he had manned the controls of a ship, but he had not forgotten.

* * *

Ammaerln was dead when the lifeboat reached the planetary surface. The vessel

settled gently and the lock cycled. He looked out at a vista of ragged forest.

This was no civilized world. Only the landing ring and the clearing around it showed

the presence of man.

There was a hollow in the earth by a square marker block at the eastern perimeter of

the clearing. He hoisted the body of Ammaerln to his back and moved heavily down the

access ladder. Working bare-handed, he deepened the hollow, placed the body in it,

scraped earth over it. Then he rose and turned back toward the shuttle boat.

Forty feet away, a dozen men, squat, bearded, wrapped in the shaggy hides of beasts,

stood between him and the access ladder. The tallest among them shouted, raised a

bronze sword threateningly. Behind these, others clustered at the ladder. Motionless he

watched as one scrambled up, reached the top, disappeared into the boat. In a moment the

savage reappeared at the opening and hurled down handfuls of small bright objects.

Shouting, others clambered up to share the loot. The first man again vanished within the

boat. Before the foremost of the others had gained the entry, the port closed, shutting off

a terrified cry from within.

Men dropped from the ladder as it swung up. The boat rose slowly, angling toward

the west, dwindling. The savages shrank back, awed.

The man watched until the tiny blue light was lost against the sky.

Chapter One

The ad read: Soldier of fortune seeks companion in arms to share unusual adventure.

Foster, Box 19, Mayport.

I crumpled the newspaper and tossed it in the general direction of the wire basket

beside the park bench, pushed back a slightly frayed cuff, and took a look at my bare

wrist. It was just habit; the watch was in a hock shop in Tupelo, Mississippi. It didn't

matter. I didn't have to know what time it was.

Across the park most of the store windows were dark along the side street. There

were no people in sight; they were all home now, having dinner. As I watched, the lights

blinked off in the drug store with the bottles of colored water in the window; that left the

candy and cigar emporium at the end of the line. I fidgeted on the hard bench and felt for

a cigarette I didn't have. I wished the old boy back of the counter would call it a day and

go home. As soon as it was dark enough, I was going to rob his store.

* * *

I wasn't a full-time stick-up artist. Maybe that's why that nervous feeling was playing

around under my rib cage. There was really nothing to it. The wooden door with the

hardware counter lock that would open almost as easily without a key as with one; the

sardine-can metal box with the day's receipts in it. I'd be on my way to the depot with fare

to Miami in my pocket ten minutes after I cracked the door. I'd learned a lot harder tricks

than petty larceny back when I had a big future ahead with Army Intelligence. That was a

long time ago, and I'd had a lot of breaks since then—none good.

I got up and took another turn around the park. It was a warm evening, and the

mosquitoes were out. I caught a whiff of frying hamburger from the Elite Café down the

street. It reminded me that I hadn't eaten lately. There were lights on at the Commercial

Hotel and one in the ticket office at the station. The local police force was still sitting on

a stool at the Rexall talking to the counter girl. I could see the .38 revolver hanging down

in a worn leather holster at his hip. All of a sudden, I was in a hurry to get it over with.

I took another look at the lights. All the stores were dark now. There was nothing to

wait for. I crossed the street, sauntered past the cigar store. There were dusty boxes of

stogies in the window and piles of homemade fudge stacked on plates with paper doilies

under them. Behind them, the interior of the store looked grim and dead. I looked around,

then turned down the side street toward the back door—

A black sedan eased around the corner and pulled in to the curb. A face leaned over to

look at me through lenses like the bottoms of Tabasco bottles. The hot evening air stirred,

and I felt my damp shirt cold against my back.

"Looking for anything in particular, Mister?" the cop said.

I just looked at him.

"Passing through town, are you?" he asked.

For some reason I shook my head.

"I've got a job here," I said. "I'm going to work—for Mr. Foster."

"What Mr. Foster?" The cop's voice was wheezy, but relentless; a voice used to

asking questions.

I remembered the ad—something about an adventure; Foster, Box 19. The cop was

still staring at me.

"Box nineteen," I said.

He looked me over some more, then reached across and opened the door. "Better

come on down to the station house with me, Mister," he said.

* * *

At Police Headquarters, the cop motioned me to a chair, sat down behind a desk, and

pulled a phone to him. He dialed slowly, then swiveled his back to me to talk. There was

an odor of leather and unwashed bedding. I sat and listened to a radio in the distance

wailing a sad song.

It was half an hour before I heard a car pull up outside. The man who came through

the door was wearing a light suit that was neither new nor freshly pressed, but had that

look of perfect fit and taste that only the most expensive tailoring can achieve. He moved

in a relaxed way, but gave an impression of power held in reserve. At first glance I

thought he was in his middle thirties, but when he looked my way I saw the fine lines

around the blue eyes. I got to my feet. He came over to me.

"I'm Foster," he said, and held out his hand. I shook it.

"My name is Legion," I said.

The desk sergeant spoke up. "This fellow says he come here to Mayport to see you,

Mr. Foster."

Foster looked at me steadily. "That's right, Sergeant. This gentleman is considering a

proposition I've made."

"Well, I didn't know, Mr. Foster," the cop said.

"I quite understand, Sergeant," Foster said. "We all feel better, knowing you're on the

job."

"Well, you know," the cop said.

"We may as well be on our way then," Foster said. "If you're ready, Mr. Legion."

"Sure, I'm ready," I said. Mr. Foster said goodnight to the cop and we went out. On

the pavement in front of the building I stopped.

"Thanks, Mr. Foster," I said. "I'll comb myself out of your hair now."

Foster had his hand on the door of a deceptively modest-looking cabriolet. I could

smell the solid leather upholstery from where I stood.

"Why not come along to my place, Legion," he said. "We might at least discuss my

proposition."

I shook my head. "I'm not the man for the job, Mr. Foster," I said. "If you'd like to

advance me a couple of bucks, I'll get myself a bite to eat and fade right out of your life."

"What makes you so sure you're not interested?"

"Your ad said something about adventure. I've had my adventures. Now I'm just

looking for a hole to crawl into."

"I don't believe you, Legion." Foster smiled at me, a slow, calm smile. "I think your

adventures have hardly begun."

I thought about it. If I went along, I'd at least get a meal—and maybe even a bed for

the night. It was better than curling up under a tree.

"Well," I said, "a remark like that demands time for an explanation." I got into the car

and sank back in a seat that seemed to fit me the way Foster's jacket fit him.

"I hope you won't mind if I drive fast," Foster said. "I want to be home before dark."

We started up and wheeled away from the curb like a torpedo sliding out of the launching

tube.

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摘要：

LEGIONSOFSPACEKEITHLAUMERedited&compiledbyERICFLINTprefacebyJOELROSENBERGThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2004toBaenBooks.ATraceofMemorywasfirstpublishedasaserializedstoryinAmazingmag...

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