The Ethical Engineer

Jason felt a justified pride that he could walk this planet under his own power. The natives, adapted to the deadliness and heavy gravity since birth, were still his superiors, but he was the only off-worlder who could stand the dangers of Pyrrus. His gun whined out of his power holster into his waiting hand as he searched for some target to use his talents on. An armored piece of nastiness, with a lot of legs, was crawling into hiding under a rock and he blasted it neatly with a single shot. The gun snapped back into the holster and he turned to the open door of the spacer, his morale greatly improved.

***

“Welcome to Pyrrus,” he told the ungainly figure that clumped out of the ship. There was a hefty maser-projector clutched in the armored gloves and whoever was inside the suit, the face was invisible behind the thick and tinted faceplate, seemed exceedingly nervous, turning to look in all directions.

“Don’t worry,” Jason said, fighting to keep a tone of smug satisfaction out of his voice, “I’ll take care of things for you. I don’t know what kind of horror stories you may have heard about Pyrrus — but they’re all true. That’s a nice looking heat ray you have there, but I doubt if you could move fast enough to use it.”

The figure lowered the gun and fumbled for a switch on the front of the space armor, it clicked and a speaker diaphragm rustled.

“I’m looking for a man called Jason dinAlt. Can you tell me if he is on this planet or if he has left?”

It was impossible to tell the speaker’s tone from the rasping diaphragm, and no face was visible that might betray an emotion. This was the moment when Jason should have shown caution, and have remembered that there were thousands of policemen scattered across the galaxy who would heartily enjoy putting him under arrest. Yet he couldn’t imagine any of them going to the trouble of following him here. And certainly there could be very little danger from a spacesuited man with a rifle, not to the man who had learned to take Pyrrus on its own terms, and live.

“I’m Jason dinAlt,” he said. “What do you want me for?”

“I’ve come a long way to find you,” the speaker rasped. “Now” — the gloved hand pointed — ”what is THAT?”

Jason’s reactions were instantaneous, conditioned to move without thought. He wheeled, crouched, the gun in his hand and finger quivering lightly on the trigger, pointed in the indicated direction. There was nothing unusual to be seen, just an empty field and the control building at the edge.

“Whatever are you talking about…” Jason asked, then stopped as it became very obvious what the stranger had been talking about. The large, flanged mouth of the maser-projector ground into the small of his back. His own gun snapped halfway out of its holster, buzzed briefly, then slipped back as he realized his position.

“That’s much better,” the stranger said. “If you attempt to move, turn, lower your gun hand or do anything I don’t like I’ll pull this trigger and….”

“I know,” Jason sighed, careful to stand with every muscle frozen. “You will pull the trigger and burn a nice round hole through my backbone and intestines. But I would just like to know why? Who is it that is so interested in my worthless old carcass that they were willing to pay interstellar freight charges to send you and that oversize toaster all the way here in order to threaten it?”

Jason was only talking to kill time, since he knew this situation would not stay static for long, not on Pyrrus. He was completely right because before he had finished the ground-control door burst open and Meta ran out, circling to the left. At the same moment Kerk appeared from behind the building, his Pyrran reflexes absorbing the situation in an instant and with no perceptible delay he ran in the opposite direction. Both Pyrrans had their guns ready and closed in with the merciless precision of trained predators.

“Tell them to stop,” the suit speaker grated at Jason. “I’ll shoot you if they try anything.”

“Hold it!” Jason shouted, and the ru

“Don’t try and buff me, dinAlt,” the maser barrel pushed harder against his back. “You are my prisoner and your friends can’t save you. Start walking backwards now — I’ll stay right behind you.”

“Look,” Jason said calmly, not permitting himself to get angry. “Those are Pyrrans out there. Either of them could kill you so quickly that you couldn’t possibly have time to pull that trigger. I’m saving your life — though I don’t know why I’m bothering — so be a good boy and get back into your ship and go home and we’ll give you a T for trying.”

“Could I have him, please Kerk?” Meta called out, the deadly assumption of her remark punctuating Jason’s logic. “After all, Jason means more to me than you. Shall I kill him yet, Jason?”

“Just shoot his gun hand off, Meta,” Kerk told her, in the same emotionless tone. “I want to know who this is, why he came here, before he dies.”

“Get back into your ship, you fool,” Jason hissed. “You’ve got only seconds to live.”

“Start walking backwards,” his captor said. “You are under arrest. I’ll count to three, then shoot. One… two….”

Jason shuffled a cautious step to the rear and the Pyrran guns snapped up at the same instant, extended at arm’s length. Jason was so close to the man in the spacesuit that the guns could have been pointed at him, the eyes sighting carefully over the dark muzzles.

“Don’t shoot!” Jason shouted to his friends.

“Don’t worry,” Kerk called back. “We won’t hit you.”

“I know that — it’s this idiot here that I’m worrying about. You just can’t shoot him for trying to do his job. In fact I’m surprised to find out that there is one honest cop left on any of the places I’ve been.”

“Don’t talk so crazy,” Meta said with maddening sweetness. “We’ll kill him, Jason. We’ll take care of you.”

Anger hit him. “You will NOT take care of me because I can take care of myself. Either of you kill him and so help me I’ll kill you.” Jason shuffled backwards faster now until his legs hit the lower edge of the hatch. He clambered into it and burst out laughing at the dumfounded expressions of his friends’ faces. The laugh died as something pricked the back of his neck. The pressure of the gun was gone and he swung around, surprised to see the floor rushing up towards him, but before it struck him blackness descended.

Consciousness returned, accompanied by a thudding headache that made Jason wince when he moved, and when he opened his eyes the pain of the light made him screw them shut again. Whatever the drug was that had knocked him out, it was fast working, and seemed to be oxidized just as quickly. The headache faded away to a dull throb and he could open his eyes without feeling that needles were being driven into them. He was seated in a standard spacechair that had been equipped with wrist and ankle locks, now well secured. A man sat in the chair next to him, intent on the spaceship’s controls; the ship was in flight and well into space. The stranger was working the computer, cutting a tape to control their flight in jump-space.

Jason took the opportunity to study the man. He seemed to be a little old for a policeman, though on second thought it was really hard to tell his age. His hair was gray and cropped as short as a skull cap, but the wrinkles on his leathery skin seemed to have been caused more by exposure than advanced years. Tall and firmly erect, he appeared underweight at first glance, until Jason realized this effect was caused by the total absence of any excess flesh. It was as though he had been cooked by the sun and leeched by the rain until only bone, tendon and muscle were left. When he turned his head the muscles stood out like cables under the skin of his neck and his hands at the controls were the browned talons of some bird. A hard finger pressed the switch that actuated the jump control, and he turned away from the board to face Jason.