Exile From Xanadu Read online

  STAR WRECKED-STAR CROSSED

  Regan’s last waking memory was of the clamor of alarm bells—a sound that lasted a bare second before it dissolved and was lost in a holocaust of roaring noise and flame. He never did recall the reflex action that flung his screaming body towards the survival capsule.

  When he awoke at last, there was nothing but black* ness, yet the pain was gone. His body was compressed and comforted in an all-embracing nest of yielding softness that was like a vast mother-womb, so close did it enfold him. He moved slightly, and at once a voice said, “Can you hear me?” In a panic, Regan tried to open his eyes, but could not. With dread, he lay very still, waiting. For the voice was not human....

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  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Martin Regan

  An accident had made him into a freak with prosthetic limbs and alien eyes.

  Manuel Cabrera

  He possessed the secret for the survival of mankind, but he did not live to share its wonder.

  Cabrera

  Old in wisdom and in the'ways of political intrigue, his concern was for the fate of humankind. He knew everything—except the answers.

  Giselle Cabrera

  Beautiful and stately, she was burdened with knowledge that she could entrust to no one.

  Arfon Plender

  He held the key to the mystery, but how could he help them—dead?

  Armand and Carlo Cabrera

  They used Regan’s life as a pawn against their enemies —they said it was in the interest of mankind.

  Exile From Xanadu

  By

  Lan Wright

  ACE BOOKS, INC.

  1120 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, N.Y. 10036

  exile from xanadu

  Copyright ©, 1964, by Ace Books, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved

  the golden people

  Copyright ©, 1964, by Ace Books, Inc.

  Printed in U. S. A.

  I

  You must fasten your seat harness for takeoff, sir.

  The attendant’s voice—a young woman’s—forced its way into Regan’s consciousness, dragging him back from his reverie; the tone of it implied that she wasn’t used to repeating herself. Regan glanced up at her tight-lipped face with its cold expression of irritation that said, “Stupid colonial,” as plainly as if she had spoken out loud.

  “Oh, yes. Of course.” His hands fumbled hastily at the safety harness which would hold him securely in its grip for the short duration of the journey to the orbit station. In his hurry to comply he made a mess of it, and the young woman had to lean down to correct his mistakes.

  Regan was aware of the other passengers watching his discomfiture, and he wanted to say, “This is the hundreth ferry jump I’ve made—not the first.” But, of course, it would do no good.

  On the other side of the catwalk his gaze met the twinkling brown eyes of his nearest neighbor, a plump man with a bald head and a fleshy mouth that spoke of its owner’s soft living and heavy indulgence. The man smiled at him and shrugged as well as his own harness would allow.

  “It happens.”

  Regan grinned tightly in reply. Yes, it happened, but did the wretched girl have to make such a picnic of it? Stupid colonial! He looked up as she snapped the final clip into place with an unnecessary jerk, and opened his mouth to say, “Thank you,” but she had turned away along the catwalk with a flounce of her lithe body that told clearly what she thought of ignorant passengers who didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain—or to fasten their safety harness.

  Regan relaxed and listened to the familiar build up of sounds as the ferry prepared to lift from the pad. The upward movement came at last, gently, like the slow pressure of a giant hand, but never more than that. The slow increase of acceleration wasn’t enough to cause more than the slightest discomfort.

  The berthing at the orbit station was just as uneventful, and as he went through the lock with the other passengers, Regan smiled slightly as he realized for the hundredth time that he had come ten thousand miles out from a planet and he hadn’t yet seen a star. The formalities of the quarantine control and the travel bureau passed quickly and efficiently. His travel documents gathered a few more stamps before he was directed across the vast central hall of the orbit station to the embarkation port for the Ferroval cruiser.

  He felt almost thankful as he crossed the short distance between the station and the ship, for the Ferroval cruiser was a colonial vessel, built and crewed by Ferroval-born Terrans. The stiffness of Earth fell away like an unwanted cloak; the cold, barely concealed impatience- that was the built-in trademark of the upper class Terran was behind him now, and he could relax in the slower, more friendly tempo of the ship’s life. Even Terrans outward bound from Earth would relax a little as he knew from past experience, and by the time the nine-day trip was over they would have lost their starchy veneer and descended to the more friendly level of colonial life.

  Inside the entry port an officer compared Regan’s credentials with a printed list, handed them back with a smile, and said, “Cabin Seventy-three, sir. You are sharing it with a Senior Cabrera.”

  ‘Thank you.” Regan tucked the dockets into his pocket and followed the blue-clad steward along the gray tube that was the ship’s main corridor. The man halted before a bleak sliding door that had the number seventy-three marked in white upon its gray surface.

  “Your luggage will be along shortly, sir.”

  Regan nodded, “Thank you.” After the awkwardness a- board the ferry it was good to be back aboard ship and in an atmosphere with which he was familiar. He slid the door back and stepped into the small oblong room that would be his home for the next nine days, and as he entered a figure straightened up from the bottom berth. Regan gazed in mild surprise at the plump face of the man who had smiled at him in the ferry.

  “Ah, Senor Regan!” The fat lips parted in a moist smile. "I regret I have beaten you to it.”

  Regan blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  "Cabrera—Manuel Cabrera."

  “Oh, yes. Of course. The—er—officer told me.” Regan smiled. “You were saying?”

  "The superstitions of space, Senor Regan.” Cabrera spread his hand towards the bottom berth. “I have beaten you to it—

  have the bottom berth.”

  “Oh, I see.” Daylight dawned and Regan laughed out loud. “I’m not that superstitious. You are welcome to the bottom berth, Senor.”

  “Then we are both happy,” smiled Cabrera, and turned again to his arrangement of the berth.

  Regan wondered idly how such an idea had been bom that it was lucky to have the bottom berth. Probably because it was easier to get to the escape capsule if there was trouble on the ship. It didn’t happen often but there had been cases where a starship had been so badly damaged that the survival capsules had been shot off into space, and, when you dived for your berth, you dived into a ready-made rescue unit that closed around you like a cocoon, and was ejected violently as the danger level reached a certain critical point.

  If trouble came fast, the survival capsule would see you through, but if you were too slow in reaching it—you were dead. In theory it was easier to hit the bottom berth than the top, and that—as far as Regan could see—was the foundation for the fat man’s superstition, that and the fact that Cabrera was probably too lazy to hoist his bulk the few feet upward necessary to reach the top.

  The door buzzer sounded, light and muted, and Regan slid it open to find the steward holding his one light traveling case. He offered the man a tip and closed the door again.

  Cabrera straighted from his berth and waved a plump hand towards the top one. “I will leave the way
clear, Senor,” he said. “No doubt you have things to unpack” “A few,” agreed Regan. “If you’ve finished?”

  “Of course.” Cabrera seated himself in one of the two easy chairs, and produced a large, black cigar. He lit it and puffed the pungent aroma of a sweet smelling, off-world tobacco across the cabin. The size and scent told Regan that it was probably very expensive.

  Cabrera smiled as he saw Regan glance at it. “My last before we reach Ferroval, Senor Regan. Will you join me?” “Thank you. No.”

  “It is your loss. These are from Kleebor—”

  “The Paradise Leaf?” Regan’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and his former valuation of expensive was multiplied a hundred times to priceless.

  “The good things of life are expensive,” said Cabrera, “because they make life worth living. Money, as an old philosopher once said, has no use save to ease the road along which we must travel.”

  On every trip, thought Regan, there had to be at least one amateur philosopher. Aloud, he said, “Another philosopher declared that the manner of our living was more important than the possessions we collected.”

  “If he said that, he lived in poverty and died a martyr. He was not a philosopher—he was a fool.” Cabrera blew another cloud of pungent smoke across the cabin. “Tell me, Senor Regan, did you enjoy your stay on Earth?”

  “No,” said Regan shortly.

  "My planet is not a pleasant one for colonials. It has many faults which are inexcusable and can only be cured by making it compulsory for every one of its people to spend a year traveling around the colony worlds. Only then will there be any true understanding. We are too insular, Senor Regan, too easy to see the faults of others while we ignore our own. That attendant on the ferry is a case in point. Her attitude was inexcusable and yet it is one that could easily be altered by transferring her to the starships for a year or two. Tell me, Senor, are you traveling on business?”

  The question came so suddenly and unexpectedly that Regan replied before he realized it.

  ‘Tfes, I am an agent for the Universal Export Agency.” He then cursed himself for falling into Cabrera’s well laid bap. The man’s attitude annoyed him beyond measure, and, under other circumstances, he would have done anything to avoid passing on details of his personal business.

  He looked quickly at the fat man, but Cabrera was busy examining the glowing end of his cigar, apparently unconcerned by Regan’s reaction.

  “A company with a fine record Senor. You should be proud to work for them. I have had many dealings with them in the past.”

  From the gray bulkhead the intercom unit announced, “Flight departure imminent. Ship’s standing regulations are now in force. Passengers are requested to comply with the conditions of travel with which they were provided when making their reservations.”

  Cabrera sighed and took a long pull at the cigar. "Such a pity. Perhaps if the captain knew that I had another half hour of enjoyment he would postpone the departure.” Idly, he pushed the still smoking butt into the waste disposer. “You are staying on Ferroval, Senor?”

  Regan shook his head, his attention still on the chore of unpacking his few light belongings. “No, I shall take ship for Janosir as soon as it can be arranged.”

  “Of course. Your company headquarters.”

  “And you?”

  Cabrera shrugged. “My movements are fluid. Ferroval is a good world. Perhaps I shall stay there for a short while. It will be pleasant to rest after the speed of my own planet. You will admit, Senor Regan, that a long stay on Earth is hardly a rest cure.”

  In other words, thought Regan, mind your own damned business. Aloud, he said, “No. I was glad to leave.” He turned away from his berth, satisfied that his small array of clothing and personal effects were safely stowed. All he wanted now was to get away from Cabrera for a short while. The man was too demanding to be pleasant, and Regan disliked the way in which he managed to worm information from him, without giving away the slightest hint of his own business.

  “I think I will have some food,” he told Cabrera. And then, reluctantly, “Will you join me?”

  Cabrera shook his head. “Thank you, no, Senor. I dined before the ferry left Earth.”

  Regan nodded. “All right. I'll see you later.”

  He left the cabin with an over-riding thought in his mind.' Cabrera was scared to leave the proximity of his berth for any length of time. His tale of the “superstitions of space” had nothing to do with it; the plain fact was that the plump little Terran would be anchored as close to the cabin as circumstances would allow for the whole of the trip to Ferroval—and Regan had a small bet with himself that Cabrera would have his meals served there too.

  Apart from his desire to stay in the cabin Manuel Cabrera was a pleasant companion. True, he was secretive about himself, but he had a vast fund of knowledge and reminiscences. He could talk well and with a Latin eloquence that was both descriptive and entertaining. His carefully groomed hands were as eloquent as his tongue, and Regan found himself liking the man despite his early reservations.

  His one regular excursion from the cabin, his self-appointed prison, was during the early morning, ship time.

  “The best thing in the world, Senor Regan, is to begin the day refreshed, and that is something that no amount of sleep, on its own, can accomplish.”

  And promptly at eight hundred ship time he left the cabin to spend twenty minutes under the hard, cold jets of the needle shower, while Regan rose, dressed, and embarked upon a more sedate and less vicious form of preparation for the day ahead.

  The morning of the fourth day was no exception.

  II

  Regan's last waking memory was of the clamor of alarm bells—a sound that lasted a bare second before it dissolved and was lost in a holocaust of roaring noise and flame. He never did recall the reflex action that flung his screaming body towards the bunk that was also the survival capsule. He was unconscious from shock and pain as it closed around his seared and tortured body, and then threw itself clear of the exploding mass of metal that had been, bare seconds before, a sleek and shining product of human ingenuity. He was saved the body-wrenching shock of transversion from hyper to normal space; and, apart from brief, pain-wracked moments of semi-conscious delirium, he knew nothing of the long hours that his capsule nurtured the dim spark of life in him while it sent forth its micro-second call for aid.

  The blackness was still with Regan when he awoke at last, but the pain was not. His body was compressed and comforted in an all-embracing nest of yielding softness that was like a vast mother-womb, so close did it enfold him. There was peace and clean air around him, and a nondescript something that spelt Hospital in large letters. This fact alone was enough to calm him in his waking panic. He was alive. He was in good hands. He was being cared for— that was sufficient.

  He moved slightly, tentatively, and at once a voice Said, “Can you hear me?”

  His mouth was dry and his jaw seemed to be confined by whatever enveloped the rest of his body. He managed a weak, muffled, “Yes,” and the sound echoed in his ears like a whisper from the grave.

  “Good.” The voice was not human, the fact registered at once. There were sibilants and gutterals in the few words he had heard that placed it as being of non-human origin. “You have been in a bad accident, but you are safe and being well cared for. Your body has been badly damaged but that can be repaired. Indeed, those repairs are already in hand. You are on the planet Lichar, and we will return you to your own people as soon as that is possible. Do you understand?”

  Regan managed a husky, "Yes.”

  "Good. You will sleep now, and when you awaken next you will feel stronger.”

  Whatever it was hit him like a falling tree. He was back in a world of mental blackness before he realized it, and his awakening was so rapid that he might have been asleep for barely a second.

  This time it was much better. The haziness was gone and some of the feeling was back in his body—enough so that h
e still felt pain and discomfort. A dull ache spread from his shoulders and his hips right through his arms and legs, and there was a lightness about his limbs that was quite unnerving. He tried to move them—there was no response— except that a voice said, “Good, you are awake. Do you feel stronger?”

  “Yes.” Even to himself Regan’s voice sounded better. “Strong enough to talk a little?”

  “Yes—yes, I think so.”

  “That is well. First, we have notified your survival to the Terran authorities on Kleinewelt—that is the nearest Terran world. They will send a vessel for you as soon as we think you are well enough to be moved. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have given details of your identity so that your family can be informed. In the meantime, until you are well enough to be moved, it has been agreed that we should look after you as best we can. Later, your own medical specialists can complete the task of getting you properly well.”

  I see.

  “And now, I will leave you to rest naturally. There will only be sleep drugs for you if you find too much pain. If you want anything I shall be here, watching you.”

  “One thing,” Regan’s lips were dry and his head was cold. “One thing—my eyes.”

  “You will be able to see again. Do not worry.”

  The Licharians were methane breathers of a heavy gravity world, and their only contact with the Terran-dominated portion of the galaxy was for trading purposes. Apart, the two races had nothing in common, no single point of contact —there was nothing for them to fight about, no dispute and no agreement beyond that point where trade was profitable to them both. Planets which were of interest to one race were of no use to the other, and trade between them was limited to such mineral requirements as each one could produce that the other could not. Therefore, Regan decided, there was no Licharian seated beside him waiting for each movement of his wrecked and shattered body. In all probability he was in a sealed chamber, nurtured and cosseted by remote control, with a large-eyed, hard-skinned alien looking at him through a thick, plastic window, and talking to him through an intercom unit.