Stetson shook his head. "No, dammit! I trust you, but you deserve a
peaceful convalescence. We've no right to saddle you with--"
"Stet?" Orne's voice was low, amused.
"Huh?" Stetson looked up.
"Let's save the noble act for someone who doesn't know you," said Orne.
"You've a job for me. O.K. You've made the gesture for your conscience."
Stetson produced a wolfish grin. "All right. So we're desperate, and we
haven't much time. In a nutshell, since you're going to be a house guest
at the Bullones'--we suspect Ipscott Bullone of being the head of a
conspiracy to take over the government."
"What do you mean--_take over the government_?" demanded Orne. "The
Galactic High Commissioner _is_ the government--subject to the
Constitution and the Assemblymen who elected him."
"We've a situation that could explode into another Rim War, and we think
he's at the heart of it," said Stetson. "We've eighty-one touchy
planets, all of them old-line steadies that have been in the League for
years. And on every one of them we have reason to believe there's a clan
of traitors sworn to overthrow the League. Even on your home
planet--Chargon."
"You want me to go home for my convalescence?" asked Orne. "Haven't been
there since I was seventeen. I'm not sure that--"
"No, dammit! We want you as the Bullones' house guest! And speaking of
that, would you mind explaining how they were chosen to ride herd on
you?"
"There's an odd thing," said Orne. "All those gags in the I-A about old
Upshook Ipscott Bullone ... and then I find that his wife went to school
with my mother."
"Have you met Himself?"
"He brought his wife to the hospital a couple of times."
Again, Stetson looked to the southwest, then back to Orne. A pensive
look came over his face. "Every schoolkid knows how the Nathians and the
Marakian League fought it out in the Rim War--how the old civilization
fell apart--and it all seems kind of distant," he said.
"Five hundred standard years," said Orne.
"And maybe no farther away than yesterday," murmured Stetson. He cleared
his throat.
* * * * *
And Orne wondered why Stetson was moving so cautiously. _Something deep
troubling him._ A sudden thought struck Orne. He said: "You spoke of
trust. Has this conspiracy involved the I-A?"
"We think so," said Stetson. "About a year ago, an R&R archeological
team was nosing around some ruins on Dabih. The place was all but
vitrified in the Rim War, but a whole bank of records from a Nathian
outpost escaped." He glanced sidelong at Orne. "The Rah&Rah boys
couldn't make sense out of the records. No surprise. They called in an
I-A crypt-analyst. He broke a complicated substitution cipher. When the
stuff started making sense he pushed the panic button."
"For something the Nathians wrote five hundred years ago?"
Stetson's drooping eyelids lifted. There was a cold quality to his
stare. "This was a routing station for key Nathian families," he said.
"Trained refugees. An old dodge ... been used as long as there've
been--"
"But five hundred _years_, Stet!"
"I don't care if it was five _thousand_ years!" barked Stetson. "We've
intercepted some scraps since then that were written in the _same_ code.
The bland confidence of _that_! Wouldn't that gall you?" He shook his
head. "And every scrap we've intercepted deals with the coming
elections."
"But the election's only a couple of days off!" protested Orne.
Stetson glanced at his wristchrono. "Forty-two hours to be exact," he
said. "Some deadline!"
"Any names in these old records?" asked Orne.
Stetson nodded. "Names of planets, yes. People, no. Some code names,
but no cover names. Code name on Chargon was _Winner_. That ring any
bells with you?"