Fugitive From Asteron Read Online Free PDF Page A

astonishment, a large sign flashed words in my very own language, but in
a phrase I had never seen: HOME RUN. The clubsman dropped his cudgel and ran around
the field, stepping on what looked like sandbags and skipping and jumping in a
most undignified way.
    A squadron of other officers ran
toward him. I wondered if a home run were something bad and the stampeding officers
would attack him. However, when they reached the clubsman, the officers
embraced and even kissed him! They lifted him onto their shoulders and whirled
him around. The aliens displayed behavior I had seen only from the youngest
children on Asteron—unbridled merriment and laughter.
    Fireworks burst in the sky above
the arena. They resembled the ones our military used to celebrate their
victories, but this display appeared to honor only the humanoid who executed the
home run. Letters across the back of the clubsman’s uniform spelled ALEXANDER,
which I assumed was his name.
    A wave of questions flooded my mind
about the peculiar alien who hit a little ball into space, inducing thousands
to cheer wildly. I was so engrossed by this scene that I leaned closer to the
screen for a better look. My movement attracted the attention of the technician,
who was returning to her seat. She turned to glare at me, so I had to walk away
and attend to my tasks.
    I heard snippets of conversation as
I worked. Feran was taking unprecedented steps for this particular mission. He
was planning for his entire fleet of ships to follow him, and he wanted to supervise
every detail of the preparations. Curiously, Feran’s ship was to leave first, the
next morning, with the rest of the fleet deployed two days later. Why the
delay? I wondered. Where was Feran going? What was he planning? These questions
joined unanswered others in my mind, because Feran did not mention this mission
to the people.
    Our leader was so concerned with
his journey that he summoned the workers servicing his craft for a meeting. “No
one is to make any mistakes under any circumstances!” he ordered. “Be sure your
work is correct and complete. If any one of you delays my mission, I will deal
with you firmly!”
    He displayed unusual interest in a
particular cargo that I loaded onto his ship, a curious metal box that came up
to my knees and was the weight of a small child. “Be careful with that, idiot!”
he barked, while I carried the box to a support in the cargo bay specially
designed to secure it for the voyage.
    Why did he not use robots to carry
things the way he wanted? I thought as I fastened the odd box in its brace. But
why would he, when humans were so much cheaper and just as compliant?
    On the craft’s main computer Feran
called up maps of places I had never seen, with areas marked food production , aircraft , power supply , communications , and military
headquarters , displaying the names of Asteronian commanders under the
items. I understood nothing of what I saw.
    After the preparations were
completed, Feran seemed satisfied. He laughed maliciously, then said: “When the
sunbeam stings, Asteron sings.” I wondered what he meant, because our pleasing
sun did not sting, and the people of Asteron did not sing.
     
    By midafternoon our shift ended.
The security gates of the space center opened to allow a stream of people to flow
out. The usually listless workers walked with haste that day to attend a special
event.
    Under a sky growing gloomy with the
threat of a storm, thousands of people gathered in a crescent-shaped outdoor
arena called the Theater of Justice. Every city of Asteron had its own theater,
with similar dramas performed there during the Days of Justice that were
frequently observed. On this afternoon, before Feran’s great mission, our city
was holding such an event.
    Because
citizens who missed these gatherings were assigned to work extra hours and
perform undesirable tasks, large crowds attended. Some people, caught up in a
peculiar excitement for the affair, completed their