IV

So I put on my dress uniform the next day, and made sure that nothing

could be deader than the dulled bits, or brighter than the polished

ones. A bit of this effort was wasted since I arrived at Headquarters

looking something less than sharp. The cooling unit in my armor was

acting up a bit; and, also, three Terran city guerillas had tried to

ambush me on the way. You take quite a jolt from a land mine, even with

armor set on maximum. Some of those people never knew when they were

licked. No wonder their Spanglt Resistance Quotient was close to the

highest on record.

I got through the three lines of guards and protective force fields

all right, checking my rayer here, my armor there--the usual dull

procedure. By the time I reached the Admissions Officer I was down to

uniform and medals.

"You want to see the Accountant?" the Admissions Officer asked

incredulously. "You mean one of his staff! Well, where's your request

slip, Trontar?"

"I've come on my own, Sir," I said, "not from my office, so I haven't

a request slip."

"Come on your own? What's your unit? Give me your ID card!"

Let's see, I thought, I've abstracted classified material from the

files and carried it outside the office, I've broken the chain of

command and communication, and, worst of all, I'd tried to see a senior

officer without a request slip. Yeah, maybe I'd be lucky to end up as a

_live_ deckhand on a space freighter.

A bored young Zankor with the rarely-seen balance insignia of the

Accountant's Office rose from behind the Admissions Officer.

"I'll take responsibility for this man," he said casually to the A.O.

"Follow me, Trontar. I was wondering when you'd turn up."

"Me?"

"Well, someone like you. Though usually it's scared sub-clerks that we

drag up. And that reminds me." He turned to another young and equally

bored Zankor standing nearby. "Take over, Smit, will you? They're

bringing in that sub-clerk who's been writing those anonymous letters.

I've reserved the Inquisition Room for a couple of hours for him."

I followed the Zankor as he strode away, wondering as I did if they had

more than one Inquisition Room.

He led me into a small room just off the corridor and motioned me to a

chair. "Before you see the Accountant, Trontar," he said, "I'll have

to screen what you have. It may be that we won't have to bother the

Accountant at all."

* * * * *

The smooth way the Zankor talked and his friendly manner almost

convinced me that we should both put the interests of the Accountant

first. But then it occurred to me that a man with the gold knot of a

Zankor on his collar wasn't often friendly with a mere Trontar. That

thought snapped me out of it and I knew I should only give the minimums.

"I've got documents," I said--"document" is such a lovely strong word,

"which prove that the official report on the invasion and occupation of

this planet is false." That, I thought, was as minimum as one could get.

"Ah, and have you?" The Zankor still looked bored. "Well, let's see

them, Trontar," he said briskly.

The Zankor had that sincere look the upper class always uses when they

are about to do you dirt. They blush that heavy shade of blue, almost

purple, and they look you straight in the eye, and they quiver a bit as

to voice ... and the next thing you know, you're shafted.

"I'm sorry, Sir," I said, "but what I have is so important that I can

give it to the Accountant only."

He stared at me for rather a long moment, pondering, no doubt, the

pleasures of witnessing a full-dress military flogging. Then he

shrugged and picked up the speaker beside him. He didn't call the

Trontar of the Guard to come and take my documents by force. I could

tell that even though he spoke in High Haldorian, that harsh language

the upper class are so proud of preserving as a relic from the days

of the early conquerors. No, he was speaking to a superior--there's

never any doubt as to who is on top when people are speaking High

Haldorian--and then I caught the emphatic negative connected with

the present-day Haldorian phrases meaning Phase II and Phase III,

Terraforming. So even though I don't know High Haldorian, and would

never be so incautious as to admit it if I did, I knew roughly what had

been said.

And I was frantically revising my plans.

"Follow me," the Zankor said, after completing the call. "We'll see the

Accountant now, and--" he looked at me sincerely--"you'd better have

something very good indeed. You really had, Trontar."

* * * * *

The Accountant turned out to be a tall and thin Full Marshal, the

first I'd seen. He was dressed in a uniform subtly different from

the regulation, and he wore only one tiny ribbon, which I didn't

recognize. He had the slightly deeper-blue skin you often see on the

upper classes, though this impression may have been due to the green

furnishings of the room. It was, in fact, called the Green Room, when

the Terrans had used it as one of their regional capitals.

I saluted the Accountant with my best salute, the kind you lift like it

was sugar and drop as if it were the other. The Accountant responded

with one of those negligent waves that tell you the saluter was a

survivor of the best and bloodiest private military school in existence.

"Proceed, Trontar," the Accountant said, leaning back and relaxing as

if he didn't have a care in the universe.

I launched into my speech, the one I'd been mentally rehearsing. I

told him I knew I was breaking the chain of communication, but that I

was doing it for the service and for Haldoria, etc. Any old serviceman

knows the routine. I was, as I ran through this speech, just as

sincere and just as earnestly interested in the good of Haldoria as

any Haldorian combat Trontar could be. But, deep inside me, the old

Ameet Ruxt was both marveling at the change in himself and cynically

appreciating the performance.

The Accountant interrupted the performance about halfway through. "Yes,

yes, Trontar," he said brusquely, "I think we can assume your action is

for the good of Haldoria, may the Empire increase and the Emperor live

forever. Yes. But you say you have material dealing with the overall

report on our invasion and occupation of this planet. You further say

this material shows discrepancies in the official report--which you

imply you have seen."

"Yes, Sir," I said, and I handed over the several sheets of paper which

comprised the old report and the changes of the new. Meanwhile, behind

me, the Zankor was invisible but I had not a doubt but that he was

there, keeping the regulation distance from me.

These people knew their business.

The Accountant took the collection of papers and compared them with

some others he had on his desk. I continued to stand at Full Brace.

Once you've been chewed out for slipping into an Ease position without

being so ordered, you never forget.

The Accountant laid down the papers, scanned my face, got up and

walked to the far end of the room. In front of a mirror he stopped

and fingered that one small ribbon, quite, I thought, as if he were

matching it with another one.

He came back quickly and sat down again. "Zankor," he said, "set up

a meeting with the top brass for this afternoon. I'll talk with the

Trontar privately."

The Zankor saluted and was on his way out the door when the Accountant

spoke again. "And Zankor...."

"Yes, Sir?"

"I should be very unhappy if the top brass here--the _present_ top

brass--found out about this material the Trontar brought."

The Zankor swallowed hard and assured the Accountant that he

understood ... "Sir."

* * * * *

Then we were alone and the Accountant was suddenly a kindly old man who

invited me to sit down and relax. I did. I really let go and stretched

out, I forgot everything I'd ever been taught as a child or had learned

on my climb to the status of Trontar. I relaxed and he had me.