Deathworld by Harry Harrison

another note on his tablet.
    Not opened for many years, rats .
    Jason’s and Meta’s guns appeared reflexively in their hands as they read the message. Jason finished opening the door by himself. The two native Pyrrans stood facing the opening gap. It was well they did. Jason could never have handled what came through that door.
    He didn’t even open it for himself. Their sounds at the door must have attracted all the vermin in the lower part of the building. Jason had thrown the last bolt and starting to pull on the handle — when the door was pushed open from the other side.
    * * * *
    Open the gateway to hell and see what comes out. Meta and Poli stood shoulder to shoulder firing into the mass of loathsomeness that boiled through the door. Jason jumped to one side and picked off the occasional animal that came his way. The destruction seemed to go on forever.
    Long minutes passed before the last clawed beast made its death rush. Meta and Poli waited expectantly for more, they were happily excited by this chance to deal destruction. Jason felt a little sick after the silent ferocious attack. A ferocity that the Pyrrans reflected. He saw a scratch on Meta’s face where one of the beasts had caught her. She seemed oblivious to it.
    Pulling out his medikit, Jason circled the piled bodies. Something stirred in their midst and a crashing shot plowed into it. Then he reached the girl and pushed the analyzer probes against the scratch. The machine clicked and Meta jumped as the antitoxin needle stabbed down. She realized for the first time what Jason was doing.
    “Thank you,” she said.
    Poli had a powerful battery lamp, and by unspoken agreement, Jason carried it. Crippled though he was the old man was still a Pyrran when it came to handling a gun. They slowly made their way down the refuse-laden stairs.
    “What a stench.” Jason grimaced.
    At the foot of the stairs they looked around. There had been books and records there at one time. They had been systematically chewed, eaten and destroyed for decades.
    “I like the care you take with your old books,” Jason said disgustedly.
    “They could have been of no importance,” Meta said coolly, “or they would be filed correctly in the library upstairs.”
    Jason wandered gloomily through the rooms. Nothing remained of any value. Fragments and scraps of writing and printing. Never enough in one spot to bother collecting. With the toe of one armored boot, he kicked angrily at a pile of debris, ready to give up the search. There was a glint of rusty metal under the dirt.
    “Hold this!” He gave the light to Meta and began scratching aside the rubble. A flat metal box with a dial lock built into it, was revealed.
    “Why that’s a log box!” Meta said, surprised.
    “That’s what I thought,” Jason said.
     

CHAPTER XI
    Resealing the cellar, they carried the box back to Jason’s new office. Only after spraying with decontaminant did they examine it closely. Meta picked out engraved letters on the lid.
    “S. T. POLLUX VICTORY — that must be the name of the spacer this log came from. But I don’t recognize the class, or whatever it is the initials S . T. stand for.”
    “Stellar Transport,” Jason told her, as he tried the lock mechanism. “I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one. They were built during the last wave of galactic expansion. Really nothing more than gigantic metal containers, put together in space. After they were loaded with people, machinery and supplies, they would be towed to whatever planetary system had been chosen. These same tugs and one-shot rockets would brake the S. T.’s in for a landing. Then leave them there. The hull was a ready source of metal and the colonists could start right in building their new world. And they were big . All of them held at least fifty thousand people. . . .”
    Only after he said it, did he realize the significance of his words. Meta’s deadly stare drove it home. There were now less people on