[Illustration] _There
are some people that it is extremely unwise
to cross ... and the fireworks start when
two such people cross each other!_
Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science
Fiction, November and December, 1959. Extensive research did not
reveal any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was
renewed.
Don Michaels twisted about uneasily for a moment, then looked toward
the doors of the darkened auditorium. He shook his head, then returned
his attention to the stage. Of course, he'd joined in the applause--a
guy felt sort of idiotic, just sitting there while everyone else in the
place made loud noises--but that comedy act had been pretty smelly.
They should have groaned instead of applauding.
Oh, sure, he thought, the drama students had to have experience on the
stage. And they really needed an audience--if they were going to have
any realism in their performances. Sure, that part of it was all right,
but why did the professionals have to join the party? Why did they have
to have 'casts like that last thing--especially at a school Aud Call?
It seemed anything but educational, and he'd had to skip a good class
for this one. He shrugged. Of course, everyone else had skipped one
class or another, he knew. So why should he be an exception? Too, some
of the students would welcome and applaud anything that gave them a
break from their studies. And the schedule probably took account of
this sort of thing anyway. But....
A fanfare interrupted his thoughts. From the backstage speakers came
the smooth rhythm of a band playing a march trio. He sat back.
The screen glowed and became a large rectangle of blue, dotted with
fleecy clouds. In the distance, the towers of Oreladar poked up from a
carpet of green trees.
Swiftly, the camera approached the city, to center for a moment on a
large sports stadium. Players dashed across the turf, then the camera
swung away. Briefly, it paused to record various city scenes, then it
crossed the walls of the Palace and came to ground level on the parade
grounds of the Royal Guards.
A review was underway. For a few seconds, the camera held on the massed
troops, then it centered on the reviewing stand. The band modulated
smoothly into a brilliant quickstep and a column of guards marched to
center screen, the colors of their dress uniforms contrasting with the
green of the perfectly kept field.
Now, the field of view narrowed, centering the view first on the color
guard, then on the colors alone. The camera moved down till the gold
and blue of Oredan's royal colors stood out against the blue sky.
The band music faded, to be over-ridden then replaced by a smooth
baritone voice.
"This is your news reporter," it said, "Merle Boyce, bringing you the
latest happenings of the day."
The colors receded, their background blurring then coming into focus
again. Now, they stood before a large window. Again, the camera receded
and a man appeared in the foreground. For a moment he sat at his plain
desk, gazing directly out of the screen and seeming to look searchingly
into Don's face. Then he smiled engagingly and nodded.
"As every citizen of Oredan knows," he said, "this nation has been
swept by a wave of terrorism during the few days past. Indeed, the now
notorious Waern affair became so serious that our Prime Minister found
it necessary to take personal command of the Enforcement Corps and
direct the search for the terrorists himself. Now, he is present, to
bring to you, the people, his report of the conclusion of this terrible
affair." He paused, drawing a breath.
"Citizen of Oredan," he declaimed slowly, "the Prime Minister, Daniel
Stern, Prince Regent."
He faced away from the camera and faded from view. Again, the gold and
blue of Oredan filled the screen.
There was a brief blare of trumpets. Then drums rolled and the heavy
banner swept aside to reveal a tall, slender man, who approached the
camera deliberately. He glanced aside for a moment, then pinned his
audience with an intense stare.
"This has been a terrible experience for many of our people," he began.
"And it has been a harrowing time for your public officials. One of our
own--a one-time police commissioner--a man sworn to uphold law and
order, has suddenly revealed himself as a prime enemy of the realm and
of our people. This in itself is a bad thing. But this was not enough
for Harle Waern." He held out a hand, his face growing stern.
"No, Waern was unwilling to abide by the results of a lawful trial,
knowing the outcome of any full investigation into his activities, he
chose to lash out further at authority and to burn his way out of
detention. He killed some of his guards. He released other criminals.
He formed them into a gang, enlisting their aid in cutting and burning
his way across our land in an obvious effort to reach the hills and
possibly stir some of the mountain clans to rebellion. And as he went,
he left destruction and death." He nodded his head sadly.
"Yes, it is painful to report, but it must be admitted that no less
than twenty innocent people have lost their lives as a result of
Waern's actions. And many more have been injured or have suffered
property loss. It has been a savage affair--one we'll be long in
forgetting. And it is with considerable relief that we can report its
final conclusion." He stepped back, then faded from view.
* * * * *
The screen brightened again to show a rambling white house which
nestled in a grove of shade trees. Behind it, rose a small hill which
acted as a mere step toward the peaks of high mountains beyond. Before
it was a broad lawn, dotted with lounging furniture. Reflected in its
windows was the glow of the rising sun, which flood-lit the entire
scene. From the speakers came muted sounds. An insect chirped. Hurrying
footsteps crunched on gravel. There were soft rattles and bangs, and
somewhere a motor rumbled briefly, then coughed to silence.
"We are now," said a voice, "a few miles outside of the city of
Riandar, where Harle Waern had this summer estate built for him."
As the announcer spoke, the camera moved about to pick out details of
the estate. It showed a swimming pool back of the house. It swung
briefly about landscaped gardens, scanning across cultivated fields and
orchards. It flicked across a winding, tree-lined road, then came back
to a rough area before the smooth lawn.
Partially concealed from the house by waving grass and field weeds, men
were moving cautiously about the fields. Near a small hummock, a
loudspeaker rose from its stand, to face the house. A man lay not too
far from the base of the stand. Microphone in hand, he looked intently
through the grass, to study the windows of the house. Then he glanced
back to note the positions of the others.
The camera's viewpoint raised, to take in the entire scene beyond the
field. The sky blurred, then seemed to open, to show Daniel Stern's
long, thin face. He cast his eyes down for a moment, seeming to take in
the details of the scene, then stared straight at the audience, his
deep-set eyes glowing hypnotically.
"Here then," he said slowly, "is one of the properties which Harle
Waern bought while acting as Police Commissioner of Riandar. Here is a
mere sample of the gains he enjoyed for a time as the price of his
defections from his oath of office. And here is the stage he chose for
the final act, his last struggle against the nation he had betrayed."
His face faded from view, the deep-set eyes shining from the sky for a
time after the rest of the face had faded from view.
Then the camera swung again, to show a low-slung weapons carrier which
had pulled up a few dozen meters back of the man with the microphone.
About it, the air shimmered a little, as though a filmy screen lay
between vehicle and camera. It softened the harsh lines of the carrier
and its weapon, lending them an almost mystical appearance.
The crew chief was clearly visible, however. He was making adjustments
on one of the instruments on the projector mount. One of the crew
members stood by on the charge rack, busying himself with adjustments
on the charge activators. None of the crew looked toward the camera.
The loud-speaker clicked and rasped into life.
"Harle Waern, this is the Enforcement Corps. We know you are in there.
You were seen to go into that house with your friends. You have one
minute to throw out your weapons and come out with your hands in the
air. This is your last chance."
There was another click from the loud-speaker. Then the scene was
quiet.
Someone cleared his throat. The man with the microphone shifted his
position and lay stretched out. He had sought cover behind the hummock
near the speaker stand and now he raised his head cautiously, to watch
the silent windows of the house. Other men lay in similar positions,
their attention on the windows, their weapons ready. The windows stared
blankly back.
The camera shifted back to the weapons carrier. A low voice spoke.
"Let's have a look at that scope, Walton."
A man's back moved aside and the light and dark pattern of the range
detector showed on the screen. The low voice spoke again.
"Four of them," it said. "Looks as though they've got a small arsenal
in there with 'em. See those bright pips?"
"Khroal?" queried another voice.
"A couple of those, yeah," the first voice said. "But that isn't too
bad. Those are just antipersonnel. They've got a pair of rippers, too.
Good thing we've got screens up. And there's a firebug. They could give
those guys on the ground a real hard time." A finger appeared in front
of the detector.
"See that haze with the lines in it?"
"Them the charges?"
"That's right. They show up like that on both scopes, see? You can
always spot heat-ray charges. They look like nothing else. Only trouble
is, they louse up the range scale. You can't tell----"
* * * * *
Don looked critically at the carrier.
There was, he thought, evidence of carelessness. No deflector screens
were set up. A Moreku tribesman could put a stone from a sling in
there, and really mess them up--if he could sneak in close enough. He
grinned inwardly.
"Of course, if he hit the right spot, he'd go up with 'em," he told
himself. "Be quite a blast."
He continued to study the weapons carrier arrangements, noting that the
chargers were hot, ready for instant activation. Even the gun current
was on. He could see the faint iridescence around the beam-forming
elements. He shook his head.
"Hit that lens system against something right now," he muttered
inaudibly, "or get something in the field, and that would be the end."
The loud-speaker clicked again and the camera swung to center the house
in its field of view.
"Your time is running out, Waern." The amplified roar of the voice
reverberated from the hills. "You have twenty seconds left."
Abruptly, the speaker became a blaze of almost intolerable light. The
man near it rolled away hurriedly, dropping his microphone. Another man
quickly picked up a handset and spoke briefly into it.
Again, the camera picked up the weapons carrier. The crew chief had his
hand on his microphone switch. He nodded curtly and adjusted a dial.
The lens barrel of the projector swung toward the house, stopped, swung
back a trifle, and held steady.
The pointer, sitting in front of the crew chief, moved a hand and
flicked a switch.
"Locked on."
The crew chief glanced over the man's shoulder, reached out to put his
hand on a polished lever, and pressed. Mechanism at the rear of the
long projector clicked. The faint glow over the beam formers became a
blaze. A charge case dropped out and rolled into a chute. Another
charge slid in to replace it and for a brief instant, a coruscating
stream of almost solid light formed a bridge between house and carrier.
Then the busy click of mechanism was drowned by the crash of an
explosion. A ragged mass of flame shot from the house, boiled skyward,
then darkened, to be replaced by a confused blur of smoke and flying
debris. The crew chief took his hand from the lever and waited.
At last, the drumroll of echoes faded to silence--the debris fell back
to ground--the smoke drifted down the valley with the light breeze. And
the rising sun again flooded its light over the estate.
The rambling white house, shaded by its miniature grove of trees, had
gone. Charred timbers reached toward the sky from a blackened scar in
the grass. On the carefully kept lawn, little red flowers bloomed,
their black beds expanding as the flaming blossoms grew.
Near the charred skeleton of the house, one tree remained stubbornly
upright, its bare branches hanging brokenly. About it, bright flames
danced on the shattered bits of its companions.
In the fields about the house, men were getting to their feet, to
stretch cramped muscles and exercise chilled limbs. A few of them
started toward the ruins and the man by the speaker got to his feet to
wave them back.
"Too hot to approach yet," he shouted. "We'll let a clean-up crew go
over it later."
The scene faded. For an instant, the royal colors of Oredan filled the
screen, then the banner folded back and Daniel Stern faced his
audience, his gaze seeming to search the thoughts of those before him.
"And so," he said, "Harle Waern came to bay and elected to shoot it out
with the Enforcement Corps." He moved his head from side to side.
"And with the armament he had gathered, he and his companions might
even have succeeded in burning their way to the mountains, despite the
cordon of officers surrounding their hide-out. He thought he could do
that. But precautions had been taken. Reinforcements were called in.
And such force as was needed was called into play." He sighed.
"So there's an end. An end to one case. An end to a false official, who
thought he was too big for the law he had sworn to uphold." He held out
a hand.
"But there still remain those who hired this man--those who paid him
the price of those estates and those good things Waern enjoyed for a
time. Your Enforcement Corps is searching for those men. And they will
be found. Wherever they are--whoever they are--your Enforcement Corps
will not rest so long as one of them remains at liberty." He stared
penetratingly at the camera for a moment, then nodded and turned away.
The musical salute to the ruler sounded from the speakers as the scene
faded. Once again, the green grass of the Royal Guard parade field came
into view. As the color guard stood at attention, the band modulated
into the "Song of the Talu."
Don Michaels got out of his seat. The Aud Call would be over in a few
minutes, he knew, and he'd have to be at his post when the crowd
streamed out. He moved back toward the doors, opened one a trifle, and
slid through.
* * * * *
Some others had already come out into the hall. A few more slid out to
join them, until a small group stood outside the auditorium. They
examined each other casually, then scattered.
Unhurriedly, Don walked through the empty corridors, turning at a
stairwell.
How, he wondered, did a man like Harle Waern get started on the wrong
track? The man had been a member of one of the oldest of the noble
families--had always had plenty of money--plenty of prestige. What was
it that made someone like that become a criminal?
"Should've known he'd get caught sooner or later," he told himself,
"even if he had no honesty about him. I don't get it."
He got to the bottom of the stairs and walked into the boy's locker
room.
Between a couple of rows of lockers, a youth sat in an inconspicuously
placed chair. Don went up to him.
"Hi, Darrin," he said. "About ready to pack it up?"
The other gathered his books.
"Yeah. Guess so. Nothing going on down here. Wonder why they have us
hanging around this place anyway?"
Don grinned. "Guess somebody broke into a locker once and they want a
witness next time. Got to have something for us Guardians to do, don't
they?"
"Suppose so. But when you get almost through with your pre-professional
... hey, Michaels, how did you make out on the last exam? Looked to me
as though Masterson threw us a few curves. Or did you get the same
exam? Like that business about rehabilitation? It ain't in the book."
"Oh, that." Don shrugged. "He gave us the low-down on that during class
last week. Suppose your group got the same lecture. You should've
checked your notes."
Darrin shrugged and stood up. "Always somebody don't get the news," he
grumbled. "This time, it's me. I was out for a few days. Oh, well. How
was the Aud?"
Don spread his hands. "About like usual, I'd say. Oh, they had a run on
the end of the Waern affair. Really fixed that bird for keeps.
Otherwise?"
He waved his hands in a flapping motion.
The other grinned, then turned as a bell clanged.
There was a rumbling series of crashes, followed by a roar which echoed
through the corridors. Darrin turned quickly.
"I'd better get going," he said, "before I get caught in the stampede.
Should be able to sneak up the back stairs right now. See you later."
He strode away.
Michaels nodded and sat down, opening a notebook.
Students commenced rushing into the locker room and the roar in the
hall was almost drowned out by the continuous clash and slam of locker
doors. Don paid little attention, concentrating on his notes.
At last, the noise died down and Don looked up. Except for one slender
figure, crouched by an open locker, the room was empty.
Don looked at the boy curiously. He was a typical Khlorisana--olive
skinned, slightly built, somewhat shorter than the average galactic.
Don looked with a touch of envy at the smooth hairline, wondering why
it was that the natives of this planet always seemed to have a perfect
growth of head fur which never needed the attention of a barber. He
rubbed his own unruly hair, then shrugged.
"Hate to change places with Pete Waern now, though," he told himself.
"Wonder where he stands in this business."
* * * * *
Hurrying footsteps sounded in the corridor and three latecomers rushed
in. As Waern straightened to close his locker door, the leader of the
group crashed into him.
"Hey," he demanded, "what's the idea trying to trip me?" He paused,
looking at the boy closely. "Oh, you again! Still trying to be a big
man, huh?" He placed a hand on Waern's chest, pushing violently.
"Out of our way, trash."
Pete Waern staggered back, dropping his books. A notebook landed on its
back and sprang open, to scatter paper over the floor. He looked at the
mess for an instant.
One of the three laughed.
"That's how you show 'em, Gerry."
Pete stared angrily at his attacker.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The three advanced purposefully. One seized Pete by an arm, swinging
him about violently. Another joined him and between them, they held the
smaller lad firmly.
Gerry swung an open hand jarringly against Pete's face.
"Guess you're going to have to have a little lesson in how to talk to
your betters," he snarled. He drew back a fist.
Don Michaels had come out of his chair. He strode over to the group, to
face the attacker.
"Just exactly what _do_ you think you're doing?" he demanded
icily.
"Who do you think you are?"
Don touched a small bronze button in his lapel. "I'm one of the guys
that's supposed to keep order around this place," he said. "We've got
self-government in this school, remember?" He swung about to confront
the two who still held Waern.
"Now, suppose you turn this guy loose and start explaining yourselves."
Gerry placed a large hand on Don's shoulder, kneading at the muscles
suggestively.
"Look, little man," he said patronizingly, "you'll be a lot better off
if you just mind your own business. Like watching those lockers over
there so they don't fly away or something. We'll take----"
Michaels swung around slowly, then put knuckles on hips and stared at
the other sternly.
"Take that hand away," he said softly. "Now get over there, and start
picking up those books. Get them nice and neat." His voice rose a
trifle.
"Now, I said!" He stabbed a finger out.
The boy before him hesitated, his face contorted with effort. He forced
a hand part way up.
Don continued to stare at him.
The other drew a sobbing breath, then turned away and knelt by the
scattered books and papers.
[Illustration]
Don wheeled to confront the other two.
"Get over by those lockers," he ordered. "Now, let's hear it. What's
your excuse for this row?"
"Aw, you saw it. You saw that little gersal trip Gerry there." The two
had backed away, but now one of them started forward again.
"Come to think of it, you don't look so big to me." He half turned.
"Come on, Walt, let's----"
"Be quiet!" Michaels' gaze speared out at the speaker.
"Now, get over to those lockers. Move!" He swiveled his head to examine
the boy who had picked up the books.
"Put them down there by the locker," he said coldly. "Then get yourself
over there with your pals." He took a pad and pencil from his pocket,
then pointed.
"All right. What's your name?"
"Walt ... Walter Kelton."
"Class group?"
"Three oh one." The boy looked worried. "Hey, what you----"
"I'll tell you all about it--later." Don scribbled on the top sheet of
the pad, then tore it off. He pointed again.
"What's your name?"
"Aw, now, look. We----"
"Your name!"
"Aw ... Gerald Kelton."
"Class group?"
"Aw, same as his. We're brothers."
"What's the number of your class group?"
"Aw ... well, it's three oh one. Like I said----"
"Later! Now you. What's your name and class group?"
"Maurie VanSickle. I'm in three oh one, too."
Don finished writing, then snapped three shots of paper toward the
three.
"All right. Here are your copies of the report slips. You're charged
with group assault. You'll report at the self-government office before
noon tomorrow. Know where it is?"
"Yeah. Yeah, we know where it is, all right," grumbled Gerry Kelton. He
pointed at Pete Waern.
"How about him?"
"Never mind about that. Just get your stuff and get to your classes.
And you better make it fast. Late bell's about to ring. Now get going."
Don turned toward Pete Waern.
"Close your locker, fella, and come over here."
* * * * *
He glanced at the three retreating backs, then turned and went back to
his chair. Pete hesitated an instant, then picked up his books and
locked the door of his locker. Again, he hesitated, and went slowly
over to stand in front of Michaels.
Don looked at him curiously.
"You ever have any trouble with those three before now?"
Pete shook his head. "Not really," he said. "Oh, one of the Keltons ...
Gerry ... sneaked off the grounds a few weeks ago. I wrote him up." He
grinned.
"Pushed on past me when I was on noon guard. I trailed him to his class
group later and got his name."