Fugitive of Time by E. C. Tubb

Author:E. C. Tubb [Tubb, E. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780575107250
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2014-04-30T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

The trading post was far enough from a centre of civilisation to be safe, and near enough for it to be within easy transport range. Kleon stared at it, noting the wide solar power mirrors, the high wind rotors, and the small turbine humped close to a shallow waterfall He smiled and gestured at the unmistakable evidence.

“Look! They use power, and need it badly by the signs. We should be welcome here.”

“What makes you so sure?” Branson stepped close to the observation port and glowered down at the roughly built trading post. “It looks pretty primitive to me.”

“No. They have solar power mirrors, and we’re far enough from Alpha Centauri for the sun to be so weak as to make that an inefficient method of producing power. They have wind rotors, and look at that turbine! I doubt if they produce more power than they need to light and warm the house, certainly not enough to provide local needs.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” grunted the big man. “What are you going to do now?”

“Leave the ship. I want you to cover me with the gun turret, just in case they have any ideas about helping themselves to what we own. Don’t let anyone enter without either Jarl or myself, and not then if there is more than one. Understand?”

“Yes.” The big man hesitated as Kleon moved towards the exit ports. “Wait!”

“What is it?”

“Are you armed?” Then as Kleon shook his head. “You’d better be, some of these frontiersmen aren’t too gentle.” He held out a pair of squat-barrelled flare-guns. “Take these, they can be a very powerful argument in a quarrel.” He grinned, and gestured with the weapons. “Take them, Kleon I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

“Thanks.” The tall young adventurer grinned as he thrust one of the guns beneath his belt and handed the other to the fat engineer. “Don’t steal the ship.”

“How far would I get?” Red waved and laughed as the thick metal door closed between them. Kleon shrugged, and strode towards the rough trading post.

A man met them just outside the door. He was a small shifty-eyed individual with a three-day beard and a habit of scratching the back of his neck. He spat a thin stream of brown juice in the soft black loam and jerked a thumb towards the delicate spire of the starship.

“You own that ship?”

“Yes, why?”

“Nothin’!” He stared at them letting his little eyes drift from the soles of their magnetic boots to the tops of their uncovered heads. “Got anythin’ to trade?”

“Maybe.” Kleon stared at the man, his grey eyes cold and as hard as the metal of his ship. “Do we go inside, or do we move on?”

The man thought for a moment, scratching at his neck. “Better come in,” he grunted, and spat again as they entered.

Inside the trading post was surprisingly modern. Portable geiger prospecting equipment hung on the walls, camping gear, several energy guns and a few old-fashioned high velocity rifles. Shelves bore loads

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