"There's a basement under this house. Shelters down there. Even total
inductor destruction of the house wouldn't hurt anyone down there." Don
pointed with a thumb.
"Got entry locks right out in the court."
"But their clean-up crews. Where would you hide from them?"
Don shook his head, smiling. "They won't do too much searching," he
said calmly. "If they actually do attack this place, they'll get some
genuine resistance. And there'll be a Federation patrol out here right
after the shooting, to investigate the destruction of a Galactic
Citizen's property."
His smile broadened. "At least, that'll be a good excuse. You see, Mr.
Masterson's alerted people at the Commissioner's office. They know
who's here--or will, when the shooting starts."
"But with this build-up, it will seem like an ordinary hunt for a
criminal gang." Pete shook his head doubtfully.
"No, I don't think so." Don walked over to the heavy door leading to
the range.
"Better get some of the weapons up here now, though. We'll have to give
them a little show."
Pete looked at him curiously.
"Why bother?" he asked. "Why can't we just duck into the shelter and
let 'em blast? Then we could wait for the patrol."
Don shook his head.
"The type of resistance offered will be a tip-off to the Guard," he
said. "I'm going to use an unusual type of weapon. Besides, Stern's
people have detectors. Remember those? There's got to be life force in
detector range, or they'll assume we've either deserted the place or
found refuge below ground. Then they would come in for sure. And they'd
really search the place." He smiled grimly.
"I'd rather take my chances on getting shelter from a blast after they
commit themselves than take on a batch of those monkeys in a
hand-to-hand down in the basement." His smile faded.
"It'll be touch and go, at that. The force of an inductor blast is
nothing to joke about. We can roll into the ledges and hope, but we
still might get singed a little." He sighed and spread his hands.
"Well, I asked for work. Guess I've got it. Sorry you may get scorched
around the edges, but----"
Pete looked at the heavy wall on the other side of the outer court.
"At least, we've got a better chance than Uncle Harle had. They
probably tied him up. And no matter----" He shrugged.
"All right, Don, let's get those weapons."
[Illustration: Illustrated by van Dongen]
"Well, here they come." Don Michaels looked out of a weapons embrasure.
From the port, the advancing men were far more visible than they
intended to be. One after another, they crawled and dashed through the
grass, their weapons held before them. They concealed themselves from
the house as best they could behind hummocks and clumps of grass. Then,
weapons probing toward the house, they waited.
A couple of hundred meters from the house, a weapons carrier purred
into position, wheeled to face the house, and stopped, the muted roar
of its motor dying to a faint rumble.
Closer to the house, there was a hollow in the earth, a scar from some
long-forgotten skirmish. Over the years, rain and wind had worked on
it, softening its once harsh outlines. Grass had grown in, to further
mask the crater, till now it was a mere smooth depression in the
ground. From the edge of this depression, rose the slender rod of a
speaker, a small, directional loud-speaker blossoming from it.
Michaels grinned and turned aside for an instant.
"Just like the big broadcasts, Pete," he remarked. "Feel important?
You're going to have a big audience."
"Kind of like it better if I were making a personal appearance. Be a
lot nicer if I could talk to them--and they could see my face."
"They can't let you do that," Don grinned. "You don't look enough like
any of those guys they're supposed to be hunting. Spoil the whole
effect that way."
Pete looked at him thoughtfully.
"You know, they always tell people to throw their weapons out and come
out with their hands in the air. What would happen if someone took 'em
up on it--like the wrong someone--like me, for instance?"
"Good question," Don told him. "Saw a guy come out in one broadcast.
Someone vaporized him. No way of telling which direction the spray came
from, of course. No tracer on the beam." He shrugged.
"Somehow, I don't think it would lead to a long and happy life."
"No." Pete nodded. "I didn't suppose it would." He looked at the long
target rifle in Don's hands.
"You could have gotten several of them with that, while they were
getting into position, couldn't you?"
"Suppose so," Don nodded. "But I'm saving it for a while. Got an idea,
but it's a one-shot and I'll have to wait before I try it." He paused
as a head appeared close to the base of the loud-speaker stand.
"Well, the show's about to start," he added quietly. "Here's the man
with the serenade."
[Illustration]
The speaker disintegrated in blazing fury and Pete turned away from the
glare, to look back at the house.
"Took your father years to get this place built the way he wanted it,"
he remarked. "Shame you're going to have to lose it this way." He
glanced over at his companion.
Don was stretched out in the prone position, his sling tight on his
arm, the rifle extended.
"Yeah," he said. "But maybe we won't lose it--not just yet."
He rolled, forcing his elbow further under the rifle.
"Look, Pete, I think I'll wait till these guys are ready for the last
act, but you better go ahead and take cover. They've committed
themselves now. I'll duck later, if I have to, but I've got an idea
that just might work out."
He laid his cheek against the stock, concentrating on his sights. The
barrel moved up and down with his breathing, then stopped.
Pete examined him curiously, then looked out of his port.
The projector barrel was moving, to center its lens on target. As Pete
watched, the lens barrel swung till he could see the glint of light on
the outer focusing circles. As the rack with its charges started to
face him, he moved back, preparing to roll into the narrow slit beneath
the wall.
Now, the lens was pointing directly toward him, its iris beginning to
widen. He slid off the ledge.
There was a sudden, snapping explosion near him. He looked up, to see
the lens system disintegrate. The projector suddenly became a blue
glare.
Pete watched as the tiny figures of the crew members flew back from
their fiercely glowing weapon.
Abruptly, he realized he was in an exposed position. He ducked
sideways, away from the opening, and covered his face.
There was a rumbling multiple explosion. Blinding light reflected from
the walls of the house. A few tiles crashed to the court. Pete caught
his breath again and risked an upward glance.
A tall pillar of flame had grown from the field outside. For long
moments, it stood motionless, searching for a limit to the sky. Then it
darkened. Smoke drifted toward the ranch house and bits of wreckage
rained down upon house and field alike. Little puffs of smoke appeared
in the sky, close by the still rising cloud.
"Pinwheel," said Don calmly. "That's one Dad couldn't beat if he tried.
Wish he'd been around to see it." Suddenly, his forced calm deserted
him.
"Oh, boy," he yelled happily. "Like shooting snakes in a pit." He
shoved his rifle back through the port.
"Try to wreck our house, will you, you bums!"
A figure wobbled up from the field, weapon weaving unsteadily toward
the wall. The rifle snapped viciously and the figure melted back into
the ground.
There was another motion and a sudden spurt of dust followed
immediately after the sound of a shot. The motion ceased.
The sound of the click of the rifle action was loud against the silence
of the scene.
* * * * *
No more figures moved. Bright flames were growing--working toward one
another, to form a widening lake of flame in the grass. Don sighed and
started pulling the sling from his arm. Pete stood up, looking at him.
"I'm a little confused," he said slowly. "I thought that weapon of
yours merely threw a solid missile. The way you described it, I thought
it was just ... well, something like a long-range throwing sling."
He looked out the port again, then pointed.
"But that weapons carrier was shielded. I didn't think you could touch
one of those with anything but another inductor."
Don leaned the rifle against the wall.
"That's the way they figured it, too," he remarked. "But they forgot
something.
"You see, rifles have been obsolete for so long everybody's forgotten
their capabilities. Everybody, that is, except a few crazy hobbyists.
And no one ever thinks in terms of long-range missile throwers."
"So?"
"So, I've been watching these clay pigeon shoots of theirs for a long
time. They've had a lot of them on broadcasts, you know. And I noticed
they always operate the same way. Actually ... well, you saw them.
They're not too careful." He smiled.
"Remember you remarked that I could have potted a few of them while
they were getting into position? Only reason I didn't was that I didn't
want to give them a warning." He shoved his hands in his pockets.
"You see, they know they're going to use that projector. The rigged
speaker just makes it look good--as though the blast were necessary and
unavoidable. That way, the public is convinced that the whole affair is
a heroic battle against evil. See what I mean?
"So, they have everything all set up. Safeties are off. Activators are
hot. Everything's lined up so they can look sharp. Snappy operation."
He shook his head with a smile. "But actually, they're a little
overconfident. Their field screen will stop any heat ray. No khroal
charge can get through--it'd get damped. The screen will ground out a
Nerne-Herzfeld couple, and no bunch of fugitives is going to be lugging
an inductor around with them. So there can't be any counter-battery
fire. Result? The projector crew feels perfectly safe."
His smile widened. "But that isn't enough. They want to be comfortable,
too. It's hot inside a deflector screen and they'd get their uniforms
all sweaty and out of press. Besides, the screen draws a lot of power
and they'd have to rev up their motor. The noise would make it rough
for the sound crew. Catch?"
Pete moved his head. "I begin to get the idea," he said. "The inductors
are real touchy when they're armed. They can arc over and flare back in
a real hurry if things get in their fields. That's why the safety
lens--and the iris."
"Sure." Don nodded. "Sure it is. And it keeps the beam tube nice and
unobstructed. Dry, too. As I said, they're pretty safe. Just like
pigeon hunters." He looked out at the field.
"Sort of funny how things can add up," he added. "Here's a guy who
makes all sorts of plans. He's got everything figured out and tied up
with a ribbon. He's got the whole Galactic Federation standing around,
just watching. Not a thing they can do to him legally. And he's got all
Oredan in his pocket--all but one family and a few odd yokels he
doesn't even worry about. So he's about to fix the family.
"Then someone else starts planning. And some little guy goes and slips
a little chunk of fast moving lead down a lens barrel that nobody even
thought of protecting. And everything goes wrong. All kinds of things
happen. Like investigating patrols ordered in by the Stellar Guard. And
conclaves." He grinned and looked at the sky to the west.
"So," he added, "a few little things add up. One family. One little
piece of lead. One house that didn't get blown up. One flight of----"
He let his voice trail off and looked at his watch.
"Wonder where those patrol ships are. They should be in plain sight by
this time, diving down the eastern slope."
He narrowed his eyes, searching the empty western sky.
* * * * *
Pete looked around the courtyard. Broken tiles littered the ground.
Here and there, lay bricks and bits of mortar. Some freak of backblast
had torn a shutter off the house and it lay brokenly a few feet from
him. He looked back toward the house.
One corner of the roof had been shattered and he could see broken roof
beams. A cornice from the wall had crashed into the house front and
bits of it lay strewn through a gaping hole in the living room wall.
Stucco littered the narrow border of shrubbery around the house,
whitening the green of the leaves.
And a twisted bit of metal caught his attention. Obviously, it was part
of a flier. He shook his head and looked at the sky over the western
mountains.
"Quite a blast," he said. "Look, Don, are you sure anything's coming to
back us up? A couple more of these and we'll be standing in an open
field."
Michaels reached up to stroke his face. "Right now, I'm not too sure
about anything," he admitted. "Except that next time they try to comb
us over, they'll take a few less chances." He frowned.
"Mr. Masterson was pretty certain about things, but----"
He spun around and walked toward the flier port.
"You know, I think we'd better play it safe," he went on. "Right now,
we've got clear air. That explosion put everything around here on the
ground, but hard. But that won't last. Stern's people will be flocking
around here in a few minutes to see what went on. We better not be
around when they arrive. Go get your father."
He pulled the flier door open.
"I'll have this thing warmed and ready to flit by the time you get back
up here. Make it fast, will you?"
Pete had already dived down an escape slot. As Don started through his
pre-flight routine, he reappeared. Jasu Waern followed him.
"What happened?" The older man looked around the littered courtyard,
then at the flier which Don had pushed out of its cover. His eyes
widened.
"But I thought they would use an inductor."
"They tried," Don told him. "Come on. Get in." He looked anxiously at
his instrument panel.
"Little risky," he muttered, "taking off so fast. Synchs and generators
haven't had time to stabilize. But it beats letting them get in range
for some more target practice."
He eased a lever toward him and watched the pointers on a dial as the
flier lifted. The red needle started to oscillate and he reached
quickly to adjust a knob. The oscillation stopped. He looked overside.
"Hm-m-m," he said, "so far, so good. Well, let's have at it."
He reached out and pulled a handle toward him, watching the needles.
They remained steady and he nodded and pulled another control toward
him, then gripped the control wheel.
The flier leaped into the air and surged toward the mountains.
Don sighed and made a minute adjustment on the synchro knob.
"Well, we haven't flipped yet," he said. "We'll stay on deck all the
way. Not such a good target that way. Take a look back there, Pete. See
anything in the air to the east?"
"Yeah." Pete had been looking back. "There's plenty back there. And
they're in a hurry."
Don jerked his head around, then glanced at the mountains before them.
"So are we. They built this thing to win races, not lose them. Hope
they knew what they were doing." He pulled a panel lever all the way
back and the flier surged forward, pressing them back into their seats.
"Hang on," he said. "Some of these corners are going to be tight."
The ship swung into a narrow valley between two hills, bucking and
twisting as Don worked the control back and forth. As a high cliff
loomed up in front of them, he pulled the flier up, then around in a
screaming turn. A second later, they almost touched the tips of trees
as they swung around the shoulder of a steep hill. The flier dropped
abruptly, seeking the floor of a gorge, then swung violently as it
followed a swift flowing stream.
Don guided it into a side gorge, then suddenly pulled up, to jump
through a notch in the surrounding hills. For an instant, the flier
paused, hovering in the air over a deep, wide valley, then it dropped
like a stooping falcon, sweeping sideways at the end of its drop, to
come to rest under an overhanging rock formation. The pilot snapped off
switches and leaned back.
"We've got a small-sized walk ahead of us," he said, "but it's through
some pretty dense growth and we'll be invisible from the air." He
grinned.
"The way I dove into that first canyon, anyone with detectors on me
would assume I was heading for the Doer--if he knew the country fairly
well. Hope that's the way they know it--just about that well."
He climbed out of the ship, holding the door open.
"Come on, Pete," he ordered, "give me a hand and we'll shove this thing
back in the cave so it won't be too easy to spot."
Jasu Waern climbed out after his son.
"I shall help, too," he said resignedly. "Which of the clans do we
join?"
Don put a shoulder against the side of the flier. "Kor-en," he said. "I
know them pretty well. Matter of fact, the Korenthal wanted to adopt me
at one time. Dad talked him out of it."
Waern nodded. "The Kor-en are known to us," he murmured. "Possibly----"
He added his weight to the pressure on the flier's side.
They pushed the machine far back into the cavern under the rock, then
camouflaged its smooth lines with brush and rubble. Finally, they
walked over the rough ground to a nearby thicket. Don paused, looking
up. Then he pointed.
"There they are," he said, "in a search pattern. Guess they got a
detector flash on us when we jumped the ridge." He shrugged. "Well,
they've got a tough hunt now. We'll detour through that line of trees
to keep out of the open."
He jerked his head, to point.
"There's a narrow break in the cliffs way over there. When we get
through that, we'll come into Korelanni."
* * * * *
Halfway through the narrow crevice, Don stopped and turned aside, to
enter a narrow alcove that had been carved out of the rock. Hanging
inside was a long tube of wood. Don rubbed his hands vigorously on the
moss which grew on the rocks, then stroked the tube.
A tone resonated from the chamber, growing louder as Don continued to
stroke the tube. After a few seconds, an answering note of different
pitch could be heard. Don nodded and stepped back into the path.
"It's all right," he said. "They'll meet us at the head of the path."
He smiled.
"This way, we don't have someone dropping rocks on our heads."
Pete looked up at the towering cliffs which almost joined overhead.
"You mean they've got guards up there?"
"Always," Don told him. "Day and night. Right now, they're at peace
with everybody, but they never let their guard down. We'll have a
reception committee waiting for us." He started striding up the steep
path.
At the head of the chasm, five men waited for them. In their hands,
they held sticks about two feet long. At the end of each stick was a
thong, with a flexible leather pad which could hold a fair sized stone.
Don bowed in the direction of one of the group.
"I know you, Korendwar," he said.