A Man Called Destiny Read online

  A MAN CALLED DESTINY

  BURIED TREASURE IN HUMAN FORM

  LAN WRIGHT

  ACE BOOKS, INC.

  23 West 47th Street,

  New York 36, N. Y.

  Jones Planet wasn’t the best place to be stranded with a broken drive unit.

  But Richard Argyle didn’t know how bad it really was until a stranger contacted him with a curious proposition. For it was a proposition that put a price on his head and made him the center of the death struggle between Earth and the great interstellar Traders.

  Argyle didn’t know what made him so important to the most powerful men in the Galaxy. He didn’t know why he was dangerous enough to be mercilessly hunted. But he realized he had to find out fast—find out what secret he unknowingly held, or die.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Richard Argyle

  This third-rate engineer made a first-rate target.

  Pietro Dellora

  He held the Galaxy in the palm of his hand.

  Alfredo Dellora

  Even his own father would not trust him.

  Armadeus Judd

  This politician always had a trump up his sleeve—he could read minds.

  Sigmund Grant

  This innocent feared robbery, but he was the center of a more vicious scheme.

  Arnold Matheson

  Murder proved more efficient in gaining his audience than letters of introduction.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jones Planet wasn’t the best place in the Galaxy on which to be stranded with a broken drive unit. Argyle found that out for himself before die ship had been there two days. It was an off-beat world, as undistinguished as the man after whom it was named; a small, out of the way planet which circled its lonely path around a minor sun, a few light years to the Galactic north of Rigel.

  Four weeks! Argyle swore to himself as he left the space- field for his evening jaunt in the small town of Jonesville. Well, at least he had the consolation of knowing that two of those weeks had gone already. The ship that had landed a few hours earlier from Rigel Five had brought the replacement unit. Tomorrow it would be off loaded, and the engine room staff—including Argyle—would set about the job of installing it. Chief Engineer Gracchi thought that it would take about ten days Terran time, but the captain had threatened him with every fate listed in the space manual if they didn’t get away from Jones in half that time.

  Argyle agreed with the captain, even if it did mean that he would have to work the clock round to get it done. The fact that this might be his last evening ashore didn’t worry him in the least.

  His tall, heavy form headed out of the open, unguarded entrance to the field and turned right towards the dim lights of Jonesville, about a mile distant. The road from the field to the town was the only good road on the planet, but even so there was no traffic at that time of night. The day’s work had ended for the few thousand Terrans who formed the planet’s only intelligent population. All of them would now be performing the nightly ritual of gathering in the bars and saloons to drink and argue and fight. Later on, early in the morning, they would weave their separate ways to their beds and dream that their five year contract was up, and that they were ship bound for Earth.

  It was a hell of a life. Five years with a small fortune in cash at the end of it; but before then there was a vista of long days in mines; no women, no entertainment outside of canned music and films; and rotgut local brewed liquor because it was too expensive to bring beer or whisky all the way from Earth. There wasn’t even a teepee to call for help if anything serious went wrong. The only contact was a monthly supply ship. Teepees were far too important to waste their talents on a planet like Jones.

  It was this lack of a resident telepath that had caused the delay when Argyle’s ship had made a hasty and unscheduled landing. They had to wait for the supply ship to call before news of their plight could be sent to Rigel Five; thus the two weeks delay in starting repairs.

  Argyle realised gloomily that he must be in a bad way if he was looking forward to getting drunk on the mixtures that were to be had in Jonesville. The cumulative effect of two weeks stagnation and the prospect of almost a week of unremitting hard work combined to lower his spirits. An evening in Jonesville became almost a pleasure.

  The one story buildings loomed out of the darkness towards him, and the lights grew brighter, illuminating the streets and the houses, the offices and the shops. Here and there a garish sign above an open door proclaimed a bar or gambling room. From inside the door raucous music blared two-year-old Terran hit tunes above the jumbled drone of human voices.

  Argyle went into the first saloon he came to, simply because he wouldn’t have so far to crawl back to the ship when he was thrown out. Already the atmosphere was heavy and stale with synthetic tobacco, and half a dozen card games were in progress at various tables. He crossed to the bar and ordered a large bottle labeled Jones Whisky. Heaven and the barman only knew what it really contained. He found a table tucked away in a comer, and settled down to spend an evening in lonely, moody isolation. Most of the faces around him were familiar; some of them nodded or shouted

  greetings at him as he was recognised.

  Some were unfamiliar. They belonged to men who were more neatly dressed and better groomed than the majority. They kept to themselves in small groups of three or four; they drank slowly and chatted quietly without the uninhibited freedom of the locals. Rightly, Argyle took them to be crewmen from the ship that had brought the new drive unit—there were no other strangers on Jones.

  The short, chubby man in a too well cut gray suit, didn’t register on Argyle until he stood directly in his line of vision, bowed slightly, and inquired gravely, “Mister Argyle?” Argyle swiveled his eyes to study the speaker. He was an out of place stranger for a planet like Jones. He was smooth, well dressed, well groomed and neat as no other person was on Jones.

  “Richard Argyle?” insisted the man.

  “Yes, that’s right. What can I do for you?”

  The man pulled up a chair and sat down. “My name is Spiros, though I doubt if that means anything to you.” Argyle said nothing. Beneath the urbane exterior and the smoothness of Spiros was something he didn’t like. There was nothing he could lay a finger on, except the odd circumstance of a stranger greeting him by name on a backwater world like Jones.

  Spiros smiled easily, not apparently put out by the lack of response. “I traveled here from Rigel Five, Mister Argyle, as soon as I heard that you were … ah … marooned here for a spell.”

  “You came on this afternoon’s ship?”

  “Yes.” Spiros nodded. “I have been trying to make contact with you for some weeks, but you have always just left when I landed. The fact that your ship was damaged has given me the opportunity of catching up with you.” Argyle stirred restlessly. People didn’t go chasing all over the Galaxy just to catch up with the Second Engineer of a scrubby cargo vessel. The story didn’t ring true, but he could hardly call the man a liar on such short acquaintance.

  He took a long drink from the glass before him and remained silent.

  Spiros’ face lost some of its composure. The smile was less unctuous and the eyes colder.

  “I do not seem to be making myself clear, Mister Argyle.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Argyle. “Not at all clear.”

  “I believe,” Spiros shifted his gaze downwards to the top of the table, “that you have not seen your wife since she left you eight years ago. Am I clearer now?”

  A coldness filtered through Argyle’s body, and he felt his muscles tense under the unexpectedness of the shock. Suddenly, after eight years, a door had opened that he had believed was locked forever.

  “I am sorry if I was too blu
nt, but I needed to obtain your interest in me and my mission,” said Spiros.

  Argyle shivered slightly and lifted his eyes to look at the man in a different light. “All right. So you’ve got my interest. Now what?”

  “I am employed by the Company Dellora. The same company that employed your wife during the last six years of her life.”

  “What?”

  “I beg your pardon … I—” Spiros shrank in his chair in terror as Argyle stood up and reached across to grab the front of his jacket in a grip of iron.

  “What did you say?” Argyle’s voice was soft and terrible. The blazing fury in his eyes made Spiros shrink even more.

  “I said I … I was employed—”

  “Not that. My wife. You said the last six years … dammit, man, are you saying she’s dead?”

  “I thought you knew. Yes, that’s why I have been trying to find you. I felt sure the news would have reached you … I … I’m sorry…

  His voice trailed away as Argyle relaxed his grip and sank back into his seat. The door had closed again, and this time it was for good.

  “How … how did she die?” he asked, his voice husky and shaken.

  “I do not know. I know only that she was a personal assistant of Pietro Dellora himself. She was a very important person to him. So much so that he asked me to tell you, when we met, that he will be forever in her debt. Her death was a great loss to the Company Dellora.’’

  Argyle nodded dully. “And Pietro Dellora sent you half across the Galaxy to tell me that?”

  “No.” Spiros shook his head. “He sent me to find you and to invite you to visit him. He hopes you may accept a position with the Company Dellora. In this way he hopes to repay a small part of the great debt he owes to your wife.” There was a long pause while Argyle digested the information. Dulled by shock though his senses were, there was still something that didn’t ring true. His natural caution probed and pulled at the strangeness of the situation, but there was nothing concrete that he could pin down.

  He asked, “Why should Dellora do this?”

  “I have told you. It is my mission and I have fulfilled it. Your wife loved you very much, Mister Argyle, even to her death.”

  “That’s why she left me,” Argyle broke in angrily. ‘Talk sense, Spiros, or don’t talk at all.”

  “I only know what Mister Dellora told me himself,” persisted the man. “Her last wish was that you be told of her love, and that, in payment for her services the Company Dellora offer you a permanent position.”

  Since Angela had left him Argyle had carried the unanswered question within him. Why? He had never doubted her love for him all through their brief two years together. Then, while he was away on a trip to Arcturus, she had vanished as completely as if she had never existed. No one knew where she had gone, or why; nothing he had done had produced an answer; no inquiries had given the slightest clue to her whereabouts. The Universe was wide and space was deep. She might have been on any of a thousand planets in any of a hundred star systems. Now, she was dead. A fat, unpleasant stranger was telling him that she had spent the last six years of her life as an assistant of Pietro Dellora, owner of the Company Dellora, the largest Trader company in the Galaxy.

  Argyle stirred, aware that the silence between them had lasted too long.

  “I don’t know,” he began uncertainly.

  “Please.” Spiros held up a pudgy hand. “I fear that too much has happened these past few minutes for you to think clearly about the matter. I shall be returning to Rigel Five tomorrow on the ship which brought your new drive unit, and I believe you will be going there in a week or two when your repairs are completed.”

  “So?”

  “I shall be staying at the Hotel Galactica. On your arrival I should be glad if you would contact me and let me know what you decide so that I can communicate with Mister Dellora.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rigel Five lay on one of the main Galactic trade routes between Earth and the populous Galactic center. Its position made it one of the richest and busiest worlds in the Terran Empire. It was a planet-city whose only function was to cope with the pleasures and needs of inter-stellar traders and travelers. Its production of raw materials was nil, and its natural resources unworthy of even the slightest attempt at exploitation.

  As a communication center it was second to none; as a trade market only Earth herself was richer. The native population was devoted entirely to the comfort of the passengers and crews from the great Galactic liners which landed by the thousands every year on the twenty-seven huge spacefields. In the midst of their Terran dominated world the natives still retained their identity, even after five centuries of Terran rule. It was a rule which they accepted as logical because Terrans were so much better at everything than they were. Terrans brought work and trade and pleasure, things with the Rigellians had never known before. The slim, slight race, with their wide mouths and pupilless eyes, lived for today. Ambition was a word they did not comprehend. They were happy with simple things, and they were loyal to those who could satisfy their needs.

  Argyle looked on Rigel Five as a second home. The high buildings and the wide streets, the glittering lights and the well-kept gardens were so much like those of Earth. Each visit brought a pang at first, for Earth was far away—almost two months by even the fastest ship—forty light years across the deeps of space. For all its Earthlike appearance, few Terrans were to be seen in the ordinary life of the planet. They held the power behind the gleaming glass and plastic facade of the planet-city. Their hands could be seen in everything and behind everything, but the work was done by the natives. Only one-in-fifty of the planet’s permanent population was Terran.

  Argyle was lucky since his ship, the Lady Dawn, landed at a spacefield only a few miles from the Hotel Galactica. For over three weeks he had brooded over the odd visit from Spiros. The sense of loss he felt at Angela’s death dulled gradually into tame acceptance of an unpleasant fact. There was a gap in his life which could never be filled.

  Because of his preoccupation the trip passed quickly for Argyle. It wasn’t until the day before they were due to land that he decided definitely to look up Spiros. Even then it wasn’t the dangled attraction of a job with the Company Dellora that decided him. There was the more important desire to find out about Angela and her life after she left him. There was in him an inarticulate thought that he might be able to fill the aching gap in his being if he knew more about her life—and her death.

  It was midday local time when he found himself in the giant foyer of the fifty story Hotel Galacitca. Everywhere were soft carpets, uniformed porters and messengers. The furnishings were the last word in sybaritic luxury, and the overall characteristic was sophisticated opulence.

  Argyle went straight to one of the reception desks and

  beckoned a native clerk. The native crossed to him and bowed slightly. His smile of service and welcome vanished suddenly as Argyle said: “I wish to see Mister Spiros. Which is his suite?”

  “Mister Spiros?” The voice was high and softly sibilant.

  “That’s right.” Argyle was puzzled by the native’s reaction.

  “Sir, I regret, Mister Spiros is … is not available. If you will please to wait one moment.” The Rigellian bowed and disappeared to the rear of the reception desk. He was gone several minutes and Argyle’s puzzlement grew. When he returned the clerk appeared through a large door at the side of the reception desk.

  “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, sir. If you will please step this way.” He stood aside and bowed as Argyle crossed to him and moved uncertainly into the room that lay beyond.

  It was a large private office. The walls were lined with filing cabinets and book shelves. A large, ornate desk was the main piece of furniture. From behind it a lean faced Terran rose to greet him as he crossed the thick pile carpet.

  “I understand you were inquiring for Mister Spiros?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you a frien
d of his, Mister … P”

  “Argyle.” He shook his head. “No, he’s not a friend. I met him on Jones Planet a few weeks back and he asked me to call and see him here when I landed. Would I be rude in asking who you are?”

  The man smiled and inclined his head. “Sorry,” he replied apologetically. “My name is Montresi. I am the manager here.”

  “I’m a little puzzled, Mister Montresi,” remarked Argyle. “All I want is to see Mister Spiros.”

  “That will be a little difficult.”

  “Indeed! Why?”

  Montresi dropped his dark eyes to the desk top before him and fiddled uncertainly with a stylopen. “Mister Spiros was killed three days ago.”

  “What!” Argyle’s jaw dropped in incredulous horror. “But …”

  “Please.” Montresi raised a hand. “It was something of a mystery, and the Law Squads are still investigating the matter. I have called the officer in charge of the case.”

  “What the devil for?”

  “Because I was asked to notify him if anyone inquired after the dead man.” Montresi smiled wryly. “Please forgive me, Mister Argyle, but I am not in a position to do other than ask you to wait for a short while. I may say that, when he made the request, the officer didn’t think it very likely that anyone would be calling, because Spiros was an out- worlder.”

  “Yes, he was from Dellora Planet.”

  “So I believe.”

  Argyle sat up and fumed, regretting the impulse which had made him follow up Spiros’ offer. The last thing he wanted was to get mixed up in a murder case. Murder? Montresi hadn’t said anything about murder. He cocked a questioning eye at the manager.

  “How did he die?” he asked abruptly.

  “That is part of the mystery,” Montresi replied. He hesitated, then, “I do not think I had better say more before—”