douglashill.galacticwarlord-第1部分

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　Chapter　one
　
　He　had　been　walking　the　dirty　streets　since　twilight　first　began　to　gather。　The　pain　streamed　like　liquid　fire　through　every　cell　of　his　body　…　but　he　locked　it　away　in　a　corner　of　his　mind；　ignored　it；　and　walked。
　There　was　little　to　please　the　eye　in　his　surroundings；　and　he　paid　scant　attention　to　them。　He　was　on　a　small　poor　unimportant　planet　whose　very　name；　Coranex；　meant　nothing　to　him。　But　around　the　spaceport　clustered　a　drab；　seedy　town；　which　was　a　well…known　stopover　on　the　main　space　lanes。　It　attracted　freightermen；　traders；　wandering　technicians；　space　drifters　of　every　sort。　Those　were　the　people　he　was　looking　for。　Those　were　the　people　most　likely　to　pick　up　the　kind　of　information　he　desperately　sought。
　He　threaded　his　way　through　the　clatter　and　glitter　of　the　streets；　thronged　with　people　idling　past　the　tawdry　attractions　offered　to　space…weary　visitors　…　everything　from　ordinary　holoscreens　to　shadowy；　semi…illicit　drug　dives。　Methodically　he　worked　his　way　from　place　to　place；　concentrating　mainly　on　the　attendants；　doorkeepers；　bartenders　…　those　in　a　position　to　collect　and　distil　the　talk；　the　gossip；　of　their　hundreds　of　customers。
　But　he　also　watched　faces　in　the　crowds。　Many　people　turned　towards　him　with　a　flicker　of　curiosity　…　their　interest　caught　for　a　moment　by　his　tall　leanness；　the　controlled　litheness　of　his　movements；　most　of　all　by　the　grey…black　uniform　with　the　brilliant；　sky…blue　circlet　on　shoulder　and　upper　chest。　Sometimes　a　person　would　glance　at　him　curiously　and　then　look　again；　with　a　flicker　of　recognition　in　their　eyes。　And　then　the　uniformed　man　would　pause；　and　intercept；　and　ask　his　questions。
　Always　the　answers　were　the　same。　A　shrug；　a　shake　of　the　head；　a　negative。　Sometimes　a　shadow　of　sympathy　…　most　often　the　blankness　of　indifference。　The　Inhabited　Galaxy　was　a　big　place；　everybody　had　problems　of　their　own。
　Undeterred；　he　kept　moving；　as　he　had　on　a　dozen　planets　or　more　before　Coranex　…　while　the　pain　clamoured　for　his　full　attention；　while　twilight　darkened　into　deep　night。　His　head　remained　high　and　his　shoulders　square；　for　a　lifetime　of　military　training　cannot　be　erased　in　a　few　months　…　not　by　pain；　not　by　weariness；　not　by　loneliness；　not　even　by　despair。
　Despair　was　near　enough；　though；　ready　to　overwhelm　him。　He　knew　how　much　time　he　had　left　to　go　on　searching。　It　was　a　good　deal　less　than　the　time　he　had　already　spent。　Yet　in　those　months　he　had　picked　up　nothing　except　scattered　hints；　all　of　them　vague；　fragmentary。　They　were　enough　to　keep　him　going　…　but　they　were　never　enough　to　give　his　search　some　point；　some　clear　direction。
　But　he　kept　on。　He　had　nothing　else　to　do。　And　the　fiery　pain　in　his　body　was　nothing　pared　to　the　grim；　vengeful　determination　that　fuelled　his　search。
　He　was　Keill　Randor；　once　the　youngest　and；　some　said；　the　finest　Strike　Group　Leader　in　the　41st　Legion　of　the　planet　Moros。
　But　now　he　was　a　soldier　without　an　army；　a　wanderer　without　a　home；　a　man　without　a　people。
　And　he　was　dying。
　The　bar　was　dim；　half…empty；　squalid；　stinking　of　stale　spilled　drink　and　unwashed　bodies。　The　bartender　was　an　off…worlder；　from　one　of　the　'altered　worlds'　…　where；　over　the　centuries；　local　conditions　had　caused　changes；　mutations；　in　the　humans　who　inhabited　them。　He　was　dwarfish　and　stocky；　orange…skinned　and　hairless。　But　his　shrug；　when　Keill　asked　his　question；　was　an　exact　replica　of　all　the　others　Keill　had　met　in　his　searching。
　'Legionaries　？　I　heard　what　happened　to　'em。　Nothin'　else。　Anyway；　got　no　time　to　stand　around　jawin'；　pickin'　up　rumours。　Got　a　business　t'　run。'
　The　orange…skinned　dwarf　moved　as　if　to　turn　away；　but　glanced　up　at　Keill　and　changed　his　mind。　Keill's　expression　had　not　altered；　but　something　in　his　eyes　told　the　bartender　that；　if　he　moved；　he　might　not　enjoy　what　would　happen　next。
　Keill　took　out　a　handful　of　the　plastic　wafers　that　were　galactic　credits；　selected　one；　and　laid　it　on　the　bar。　'Is　there　anyone；'　he　said　evenly；　'who　might　have　had　time　to　listen　to　rumours　？'
　The　bartender's　hand　covered　the　credit；　and　pondered　for　a　long　moment。　'Maybe；'　he　said　at　last。　'Freighter　pilot　named　Crask；　gets　around　a　lot；　has　big　ears　and　a　big　mouth。　Might　know　somethin'。'
　'Where　do　I　find　him？'
　The　orange　dwarf　sneered。　'Blind　drunk　in　an　alley　somewhere。　Unless　he's　got　back　to　the　port。　That's　where　he　sleeps　…　in　his　ship。'
　Keill　nodded　and　left　the　bar。　He　did　not　seem　to　see　the　bartender　gesture　quickly　towards　a　group　of　heavy…set　men　slouching　over　drinks　at　a　nearby　table。
　A　yawning　security　guard　pointed　out　the　freighter　owned　by　the　man　called　Crask。　It　was　a　battered　hulk　of　a　ship；　bulbous　and　ungainly　like　all　freighters　…　and　it　was　deserted。　Keill　settled　down　to　wait。　He　did　not　allow　himself　to　hope；　he　did　not　allow　himself　to　think　about　the　possibility　that　Crask　might　know　something；　or　the　stronger　possibility　that　he　might　be　just　another　dead　end。　He　merely　leaned　against　the　ship　…　relaxed；　controlled；　infinitely　patient　…　and　waited。
　The　men　came　soon；　as　he　had　half…expected。　Four　bulky　Shadows　in　the　dim　lighting；　which　focused　mainly　on　the　low　buildings　across　the　spaceport's　flat　plasticrete　surface。
　They　ranged　themselves　in　front　of　Keill；　looking　him　up　and　down　slowly。　Keill　had　taken　in　the　details　of　the　four　in　a　glance。　All　of　a　type　…　heavy　muscle　running　to　fat；　soiled　one…piece　coveralls；　hard；　empty　eyes。　Small…time　space　drifters；　who　would　be　more　willing　to　operate　on　the　criminal　fringe　of　interworld　trade　than　off　it。
　The　biggest　of　the　four；　almost　bald；　stood　slightly　to　the　front　of　the　others；　as　if　to　underline　the　fact　that　he　was　their　leader。　Keill　straightened　up　slowly；　away　from　the　ship；　still　relaxed　and　calm。
　'I'm　Crask；'　said　the　balding　man。　'You　the　one　lookin'　to　hear　about　legionaries　？'
　Keill　nodded。
　'An'　you're　a　legionary　yourself？'
　'I　am。'
　'Yeah。　Too　bad　about　your　planet。'
　The　words　were　spoken　as　if　Crask　were　sympathizing　over　some　minor　affliction；　like　a　head…cold。
　Keill's　expression　did　not　change。　'I　was　told　that　you　might　be　able　to　give　me　some　information。'
　'I　might；'　Crask　said。　'What'd　it　be　worth　？'
　'It　depends　on　what　you　tell　me。'
　The　big　man　snorted。　'You　want　me　to　tell　you　what　I　know　…　and　then　you　name　your　price　？'
　'You　won't　be　cheated；'　Keill　replied。
　'Ain't　that　easy；'　Crask　said　stubbornly。　'Name　us　some　kind　o'　figure。'
　Keill　sighed。　'I've　got　about　three　thousand　galacs。　I　can　pay　your　price。'　He　recalled　for　an　instant　the　day　that　he　had　ripped　out　of　his　one…man　fighter　every　expendable　item　he　could　…　second　space　suit；　escape　capsule；　some　of　his　hand　weapons；　spare　parts　…　and　sold　them　to　help　finance　his　search。
　Crask　licked　his　lips。　'You　got　that　kind　of　money　with　you　？'
　'Not　here。　In　my　ship。'　Keill　pointed　out　into　the　darkness　of　the　spaceport；　towards　the　central　pad　where　his　ship　waited；　just　as　he　had　left　it　after　landing。
　Crask's　grin　was　unpleasant。　'Then　let's　us　walk　out　there　just　now；　an'　you　can　get　y'r　money。'
　Keill　shook　his　head。　'We'll　stay　here；　you'll　tell　me　what　you　know；　then　I'll　go　and　get　the　money。'
　Crask's　laughter　was　even　more　Unpleasant。　'You　don't　get　the　idea　at　all。　You're　a　drifter；　a　nothin'。　You　don't　know　nobody　here；　nobody　knows　you。　So　nobody's　gonna　raise　trouble　if　you're　found　face…down　in　a　gutter。　Happens　all　the　time　t'　drifters。　Get　drugged　up；　get　into　trouble；　get　dead。　Nobody　cares。'
　As　he　spoke；　Crask　slid　a　meaty　hand　into　a　pocket　and　dragged　out　a　slim　plastic　cylinder。　A　needle…gun　…　more　likely；　Keill　knew；　to　be　armed　with　a　killer　poison　than　an　anaesthetic。
　The　other　three　men　also　drew　out　weapons。　Two　had　the　knobbly　metal　clubs　favoured　by　backstreet　thugs　on　many　worlds。　The　third；　unusually；　had　a　glowing　therm…knife；　its　blade　superheated　so　that　it　burned；　rather　than　cut；　through　most　materials　…　including　human　flesh。
　Keill　stood　calmly；　watching；　seeming　not　to　move。　Yet　his　body　was　gathering　itself；　balanced；　ready。
　It　was　almost　unfair。
　The　thugs　were　grinning。　They　saw　themselves　as　four　tough；　well…armed　men　facing　only　one　man；　empty…handed；　helpless。
　But　they　were　facing　a　legionary　of　Moros。　A　man　whose　people　were　trained　…　all　of　them；　and　from　infancy　…　to　the　highest　pitch　in　the　arts　and　skills　of　battle。　And　a　man　who；　in　his　own　right；　had　been　a　leading　medal…winner　for　each　of　the　previous　two　years　in　his　planet's　annual　Festival　of　Martial　Games。　Many　of　those　medals　had　been　for　unarmed　bat。
　So　Crask　was　still　in　the　process　of　raising　the　needier　when　Keill　moved。
　He　gave　no　hint　or　warning；　did　not　tense　or　poise　his　body。　He　simply　dropped；　full…length；　to　one　side。
　His　right　hand　met　the　plasticrete；　the　arm　rigid　to　take　his　weight。　On　the　pivot　of　that　hand；　his　body　swung　in　a　horizontal　arc；　legs　scything。
　One　boot　swept　the　feet　out　from　under　a　club…wielder。　The　point　of　the　other　boot　struck　precisely　against　the　beefy　wrist　of　the　hand　that　held　the　needier。
　The　crack　of　bone　breaking　was　nearly　drowned　by　Crask's　shriek　of　pain。　As　t