S.T.A.R. FLIGHT by E.C. Tubb Read Free Book Online Page B

over the feeling that now he was on alien territory. They could do anything they liked to him and no one could do anything about it. He’d left the U.S.A. and now … somewhere else. Still on Earth, still in the city of New York, but technically on ground which belonged to the Kaltich. Alien soil.
    He approached the building, walked around it to the right place, pushed open a door and handed the docket to the man inside. He was completely dressed in white. He tookthe docket without speaking and turned from the hatch. Milt sat down on a bench against the wall. As always he stared around and with the same result. Just a bare room with a bench and the hatch through which the man had stared. Nothing else. Boldly he stood up and approached the hatch. He could see a small room, a desk with an intercom, a chair and a second hatch on the far side. The man stood before it. As Milt watched he turned and headed towards him. He wore a thick glove on the hand which carried the package.
    “Here.” He dropped it and held out a printed form. “Sign.”
    “Just a minute.” Milt was examining the box. It was of grey fibre, light but colder than ice. He wiped frost from the label. “Heart,” he read. “Human male. Tissue type 382795193.”
    “Sign,” said the man.
    Milt signed, took up the box, ran back to his bike and opened the compartment on the pillion. Vapour rose from the dry ice with which it was packed. He dropped in the package, slammed shut the compartment and roared away.
    He felt good, a little like the knights of old when they did something big for their dames. He’d gone out into the world and won a prize for his lady. The fact that Hilda Thorenson didn’t know him from Adam made no difference. He knew her. He was in love with her. He would, if she asked, die for her.
    The road cleared and he opened his throttle, climbing up through the gears. The bike would do, had done, more than a hundred miles an hour. In the city it was enough.
    Wind pressed against his face, forced grit into his eyes. He blinked, seeing vague shapes ahead as if through water, dancing shapes which grew suddenly huge. He leaned over in an effort to avoid them. He felt the jar, the hard yet soggy shock of impact, the sickening realization that he had lost control, was hurtling through the air. The helmet, he thought. I’ve got no helmet!
    Ed Lever swallowed, feeling sick, feeling shaken and totally helpless. It happens like this, he thought. One minute, second even, everything’s all right. The next … God, he thought. I’ll never forget this as long as I live.
    He looked down the road to where the motorcyclist was lying. Brains made a red-grey pool from the shattered skull. Well, that’s him finished, thought Ed. They can’t give him a new brain. He walked to where William Preston had been flung. He lay face upwards, blind eyes staring. He must be all smashed up inside, thought Ed. He looked around, guiltily. People were coming but were still some distance away. Quickly he slipped a hand into the dead man’s pocket. Quickly he put the cash into his own.
    “I’ll pay Martin back,” he told the dead man. “I promise that.”
    He walked away, quickly, heading towards the Gate. The money would buy him life. Bill couldn’t use it now.
    The Prestdale Debt Collection Agency occupied a tiny room in the heart of a run-down business complex which had no elevators, no central heating and no hot running water. All these things had disappeared during the past sixty years. At times Martin wished that the building had followed the amenities.
    Climbing the stairs he pushed open the door and caught his partner in a dubious act.
    “What the hell?” Tony Dale, his chair leaning back against the wall, yelled at the intruder. Lucile Jones, a pert brunette, squealed as she jumped from his lap and hastily smoothed down her skirt. “Martin!” Tony let the front legs of his chair down with a bang. “I thought you were a client,” he said. “What are you