Don nodded. "You will remember that scene," he said. "Do you remember
that man's struggles? Do you remember the animal, chewing at him,
injecting its poison? Do you remember this man dropping, first to his
knees, then to his back? Do you remember----"
"Hey!" protested the other. His hands came up before his face.
"Put those hands down," snapped Don. "And listen closely. I want you to
have full recall on this. You remember this man who was bitten, how he
sobbed for breath--how his legs stretched out and his back arched, till
the muscles tore from the bones with their effort. You remember all
this?"
The man nodded wordlessly, his fascinated stare fixed on Don's face.
"Then I want you to fix this in your mind," Don told him. "Should you
be so unwise as to attempt to mention any of these things that have
happened since you came down those stairs--should you even allow your
memory to dwell on these things for too long--these are the things that
will happen to you.
"You will sink to your knees. Your muscles will be unable to support
you, and you will fall to your back. You will find it impossible to
breathe, for the muscles of your chest will distend the ribs. And in
your struggles, you will break bones. And you will tear your body to
bits. Do you understand this?"
The man sagged against the wall, panting. He managed a nod.
"Then forget about this afternoon," commanded Don. "Go about your
business in normal fashion. And forget about this afternoon. Nothing
happened that was worthy of note." He waved a hand in dismissal, then
turned to Korentona.
"I don't want to go into a lot of detail," he said. "As I said, there's
a detailed message in the pack. I'll wait for you to read it." He
glanced down at his clothing.
"I'd like a place, though, where I can clean up. And I could use some
other clothes, if you don't mind."
* * * * *
When he came back to the office, Korentona waved him to a chair.
"So," he said musingly, "they were right. You did go to the clans for
aid." He smiled.
"The police have been keeping close watch on everyone in the city who
might have even a remote connection with the hill clans. And they're
really keeping an eye on the Waern home. You're going to have a nice
time getting in there."
Don nodded. "I expected some trouble. Do you know whether they've done
any searching?"
Korentona shrugged. "I don't run an investigative agency," he said with
a smile, "so I don't know everything that's going on. But I've heard
there've been lights on up there nearly every night. And they've had
crowds of people around the place. Not so much activity the last couple
of days, though. They're just watching."
"I see," Don nodded. "Wonder if they've found what they were looking
for?"
The other shook his head, "Doubt it," he said. "If they had, they'd
relax. Now that I know what it's all about, I can figure out what I've
heard. They'll take off the watch as soon as they find that book, I
think.
"Oh, of course, they still want you," he added. "And they'd like to get
their hands on the Waernu. But they wouldn't be frantic about it if
they weren't worried about the outcome of a conclave."
"No," agreed Don. "I guess they wouldn't, at that."
He stretched. "Well, guess I'd better get on my way. I've got to get
into that house somehow. Think I'll take a wander out there and see if
I can get some ideas."
The merchant put up a detaining hand. "Take it slow," he advised. "You
can't go up there tonight."
"Oh?"
"No. It wouldn't be wise at all. There are a bunch of young fellows
that have been hanging around there lately. It isn't safe to walk
around that neighborhood. They've beaten five or six people pretty
badly. And they've killed a couple." Korentona paused.
"Funny," he added. "The police don't seem to be so upset about that."
"They wouldn't be," Don told him.
"So you think I'd better wait till morning?"
"It'll be a lot better. I can give you a place to stay tonight. And my
house isn't too far from the Waern place, so you can get over there in
a hurry if you want to." Korentona paused.
"Say, how about that fellow, Foree? Are you sure he'll keep quiet?"
Don smiled. "Pretty certain. Of course, I don't know whether an effort
to talk would actually kill him. But he'd be pretty uncomfortable for a
while. Might even come up with shock amnesia." The smile broadened.
"He may have already done enough careless thinking by this time to make
him pretty sick." He regarded Korentona thoughtfully.
"You say there's a gang of young fellows hanging around the Waern
neighborhood?"
The merchant nodded. "Quite a few of them, I think. People living
around there don't spend any time on the street or in the park, you can
be sure of that."
"I see." Don nodded slowly. "That way, it's a lot easier to watch the
Waern place at night. Look, there must be quite a few hillmen in this
city. I should think you'd know quite a number of them."
"Yes, I do, of course." Korentona smiled. "We don't exactly form a
closed group, but ... well, I'll have to admit we do think a little
differently from the plainsmen."
"I know." Don reached into his jacket and slowly withdrew a stick with
a thong wrapped around it.
"Many of your friends carry these?"
The merchant laughed. "Certainly!" He produced a polished stick of his
own.
"Can you imagine any clansman without this sling?"
Don looked at him speculatively. "I wonder," he said casually, "what
would happen if these young toughs found themselves being hunted down
by ... say ten or fifteen blood hungry clansmen. Might worry them a
little, wouldn't you think?"
Korentona shook his head doubtfully. "You know what the situation is
here in Riandar," he remarked. "The police don't worry too much about
these robberies and beatings. But they'd be pretty perturbed if someone
started hunting the hunters."
"That's what I mean." Don spread his hands. "Might even get the people
watching the Waern place upset and nervous." He shrugged. "And who's to
know what caused the uproar, or who's involved? After all, all the
clansmen were at home. The watchers on their houses could testify to
that."
Korentona looked at him curiously. "Interesting idea, at that, you
know." He got to his feet. "Suppose we talk it over for a while."
* * * * *
Maurie VanSickle crouched behind a bush, watching the path. This, he
thought, was getting old. It had been a lot of fun at first.
Profitable, too. He thought with amusement of the old man who had
scrambled about in the dirt that first night. Boy, what a beat jerk
he'd been. And what a beautiful job Gerry had done on him. Clipped the
stupid yokel so hard he didn't make a sound when he went down.
Then he and Walt had come in. Man, how the old guy had wriggled! He
looked down the path.
Now, though? Phooey! Not a lousy person on the path all evening. He'd
tried to tell Gerry they were on a loser. Park was all worked out for a
few weeks. But the stubborn clown wouldn't listen. Kept insisting they
try it a couple more nights. Maurie reached into his pocket.
"Better make a strike pretty soon," he muttered to himself. "The old
cash bag's getting empty." He stretched, then tensed. There were
footsteps on the path.
This one was his!
Silently, he gathered himself. He'd clip the guy from behind, then
Gerry and Walt could come in from the other side and pin him down.
"Hope the jerk's got plenty of that stuff," he muttered.
The stroller came closer. Maurie appraised him as he walked. Oh, boy,
another little, old guy. Clothes looked pretty good, too. Nice stack of
cloth. Should be quite a rack of the purple in them.
Now the man was almost close enough. Maurie's eyes followed him as he
approached, then passed. He launched himself in a crouching dash.
As he left the shelter of the bush, something bumped against his neck.
He found himself whirling to the ground. Dimly, he saw his intended
victim whirl around. He attempted to dodge the foot as it came down on
his face, but it was like moving in a dream. Somehow, he was too slow.
For just an instant, he felt crushing pain, then the world dissolved
into bright specks in a spreading blackness. One by one, the points of
light winked out. And then, there was nothing.
As their intended victim whirled to crush Maurie, Gerry Kelton poked at
his brother.
"Come on," he urged. "He can't take two of us. Let's go."
The two dashed out of their cover, then found themselves prostrate at
the edge of the path.
Walt Kelton was flipped over and held in a vicelike grip, his head
grinding into the path. Close by, he could see his brother. Two men
held him down. As he watched, they seized Gerry's hands, twisting them
so that his head flopped face up.
A third man leaned over, a long knife in his hand. Unbelievingly, Walt
watched as the man thrust the knife into Gerry's throat. The boy's feet
kicked convulsively a couple of times, then dropped. The toes sank, to
point outward.
With calm precision, the killer turned his knife and forced it across
the throat with the heel of his hand. Dark fluid welled out on the
path, making a pool which flowed toward Walt.
Casually, the man pulled the slack of Gerry's shirt toward him and
wiped the blade till it was gleaming again. Then he looked toward Walt.
He got to his feet.
For an instant, the boy lay limp, paralyzed with terror. Then, he
kicked and struggled madly. Unbelievingly, he felt the hands which
restrained him loosen and he kicked and squirmed until he was free to
scramble away.
He skittered on all fours till he reached the middle of the path.
Then he struggled to his feet.
And ran.
* * * * *
Don Michaels flipped on the light in the vault and looked around him.
Yes, it was just as Jasu Waern had said it would be. He walked over to
the closet at the side of the room and pulled out a towel. As he dried
himself, he continued his examination of the room.
It had been easier to get in than he had hoped. When that screaming kid
had come dashing along, it had been like a stick in an ant hill.
Everyone around the house had been shaken up. Several men had gone
streaking over to the park. The others had given the incident their
full attention.
And all Don had needed do was walk up to the front door and go in.
"Guess they thought they had a full-scale revolution on their hands,"
he told himself. "Wonder how many Hunters the Moreku nailed." He
grinned.
The men Korentona had talked to had jumped at the plan like starving
gersals. Several of them had been victimized in the past. They really
wanted blood. The others saw a good hunt in the offing. Every one of
them knew someone who had been robbed. He'd turned something loose, all
right.
"Hope they don't get too enthusiastic about it," he said. "Hate to have
'em make a habit of that sort of thing." He shrugged.
"Oh, well, let's see where that book is."
The sides of the room were lined with books. Over in a corner was a
reading table with writing materials and a conveniently placed light.
Don walked over to a glass-fronted bookcase and opened it, studying the
titles of the volumes within. Finally, he selected a book and carried
it over to the reading table.
He leafed through the volume, noting the careful engrossing. Then he
paused as he came to the pages he was searching for. He examined the
ornate script closely, then looked at the intricate stamp. It was the
signature stamp of the old king. Beside it was his queen's less
pretentious stamp. Don nodded in satisfaction.
Now, the only problem was to wrap the book safely in the waterproof
tissue he'd brought with him, and get it out of the house. He stood,
looking at the door.
It might not be too safe to leave the book with Korentona, as had been
originally planned. With the clansmen under surveillance as they had
been, and now, with this additional disturbance, there could be a
disastrous slip. Don shook his head.
Somehow, the idea of carrying this document in a peddler's pack didn't
make too much sense, either. Too many things could go wrong. He sat
back in the chair and stuck his legs out.
"Well," he told himself, "I can't stay here for the rest of my life.
I'll have to do something." He grinned ruefully.
"The best defense," he quoted, "is a determined and well-directed
offense. So, if you don't know what to do, do anything. Then you'll
find out what to do next."
He snapped the light out and opened the door. At the edge of the water
lock, he breathed deeply a few times. Then he plunged in, closed the
underwater door, and swam rapidly toward the surface of the garden
pool.
* * * * *
He climbed out of the water, strode forward a few steps, then stopped
in consternation. The place was suddenly flooded with light.
An oily voice sounded in his ears.
"Just stand still, young fella. That way, you don't get hurt. Not right
away, anyhow."
Don turned. At the side of the garden, stood a scrawny old man, his
seamed face wrinkled into a sardonic smile. In his hand, he held a
small weapon.
Don recognized it--a khroal. The weapon could put out vibration which
would tear any target to tiny, singing fragments in a few microseconds.
It was a complete anomaly which had been in the possession of the
Khlorisanu for measureless time. Its origin was mystery, its exact
principle of operation a puzzle. But it was easy to duplicate, and it
was one of the most deadly hand weapons known.
He held his hands out.
"Put that thing away," he snapped coldly. "Get it down--quick!"
The older man's smile broadened into happy amusement.
"Oh, funny stuff, eh?" he said joyfully. "I kinda hoped you'd be the
one they'd send. Yeah, I kinda wanted to see you--what you look like,
eh?" He waved the weapon.
"Just stand still, young fella, so old Jake can get a good look at you.
Hey, you look like one of these here natives." The man bobbed his head.
"Woulda fooled me, you know?" He looked reproachful.
"Only, a smart young fella like you, you oughta know better than go and
get that Foree so worried. You know, that fella, he comes in every
night--got a lot of things he wants to talk about. Got theories. Got
plans. Real eager fella. Only tonight, he ain't got nothing. Just
grunts.
"Nothing goes on today, he says." Jake shook his head reproachfully.
"You know, that was careless. You shoulda let him talk anyhow a little,
see. Something like that happens, old Jake, he gets ideas. So I come
out here, to see who comes along." He looked at the package under Don's
arm.
"That the book we're all looking for?" He jerked his head toward a
door.
"Yeah, guess it is. Come on, young fella, that funny stuff, it don't
work so good with old Jake, see? So let's you and me take a nice little
ride. What ya say?"
The khroal remained steadily pointed at its target.
Don hesitated. This was about as far from good as it could get, he
thought. Now who was this? Where did he fit into the situation?
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"Oh, I don't mind telling you that. Name's Jake. Jake Gorham. But come
on. Let's get on our way. We got a nice, long ride, you and me, see?"
Gorham waved his weapon again.
"Come on," he repeated. "Nice young fella like you, he don't wanna get
all scattered around. Shame to mess up this nice pretty little garden,
you know?"
Don hesitated. Of course, he might be able to dive into the pool again.
But the khroal could kick out a cone several feet deep. There was no
escape that way. No way out of the pool, anyway--except through this
garden. He moved in the indicated direction.
* * * * *
Gorham herded him to the courtyard and closed the door. The house
lights filtered through curtains, to show the outline of a flier in the
middle of the court. Gorham urged him toward it.
"All right, young fella," he said, "just stand real quiet for a minute.
I'll get this thing unlocked and start them synchronizer things." He
reached toward the door, then paused.
"Yeah, I been kinda wondering about you," he added conversationally.
"See, I got a smart young fella down there in Oreladar. He's got people
pretty well trained down there by now. Chap named Stern. You hear of
him, maybe?" He chuckled.
"Kinda set him up in business here a few years back, and he's doing
pretty well. Old Jake just hasta hang around--kinda look after things
now and then, this boy shouldn't get in too much trouble, see?" He
cleared his throat.
"See, this Danny, he ain't got too much in the brains department. And
he don't do so good when people get violent. Might say he sorta scares
easy sometimes. Now you, I'd say you were a little different, see? Ya
know, I just might be able to use a real smart young fella like you."
He flipped the khroal up and down negligently.
"Now, don't go making up no mind yet. Like I say, we got time. We have
a nice, long talk on the way to Oreladar. Maybe we work something out,
eh? You know, old Jake, he ain't such a bad guy. You ask Danny. He'll
tell you. We could get along real nice, the three of us." He paused,
considering.
"Oh, maybe you don't like the idea at first," he added. "But we got all
kinds ways to persuade people.
"Got a fella, name's Masterson, down there right now. Danny tries, but
he can't do nothing with him. But he'll come around. You give us a few
more days--a week, maybe, he's going to be a real reasonable fella." He
pulled the flier door open.
"We're getting this country organized, see? One of these days, some
fella's been smart and got in at the right time, he's going to be quite
a guy. Have just about anything he wants, see?" He reached into the
flier and snapped switches. A muted humming sounded through the
courtyard.
"Tell you, though, Kid. Maybe old Jake's not real trusting like he
oughta be. Not just yet a while. Suppose you just turn your back to me
for a minute, eh?"
Don turned slowly, straining his ears.
He could hear the faint sibilance of Gorham's clothing as the man
approached. Then the sound stopped. There was a slight grating noise.
Obviously, then, the man was lifting an arm and shifting his weight.
Don dropped suddenly to the ground, whirling as he went down. He seized
Gorham's legs, lifted, then dashed the man's body to the ground.
Swiftly following up, he seized the gun hand and twisted violently.
Jolted by the sudden fall, Gorham was quiet for a fraction of a second.
Then he burst into explosive action, trying to tear himself free from
Don's restraining grip. He twisted and tried to kick himself free, then
groaned as the twisting pressure ripped at elbow and shoulder tendons.
The khroal rattled on the stones.
Abruptly, Don jerked the tortured arm around and pinned it beneath a
leg. He placed a hand on Gorham's throat and reached for the other arm.
"Aw," whispered Gorham agonizedly, "aw, take it easy, will you? I got
the idea all right. So let me up, we do things your way, huh?" He
looked anxiously at the face which stared down a few inches from his
own.
Don saw the pleading expression on the man's face. For a heartbeat, he
started to relax the pressure on the throat.
Then he remembered another pleading pair of eyes that had looked at
him. The gersal, he remembered, had been just as helpless under his
stick as this man was now under his hands. But given the slightest
chance, it would have had its teeth in his leg. And the poison would
have poured into his veins. He looked again at Gorham.
His hand tightened and drove downward.
Gorham's eyes widened, then glazed. He gave a half-choked squawk. Feet
and body jerked convulsively. Then the hard, taut strength was gone and
the man lay limply. Don raised his hand and put his entire weight
behind the stroke which drove his extended fingers into the soft part
of the man's throat. Then he felt carefully, to be sure there was no
vestige of a pulse.
* * * * *
He got to his feet and stood for a moment, looking down at the crumpled
figure on the stones. Then he brought his hands up, to look at them
appraisingly. He was suddenly aware of a feeling of lightness, of an
uncontrollable desire to go into rapid motion. Any motion would do. His
muscles simply demanded some sort of violent action. It seemed to him
as if he almost floated as he walked over to the book he had thrown as
he whirled on Gorham. He bent over and picked it up, then looked about
the courtyard.
He turned and looked at the flier.
It was warmed up by this time. He moved swiftly over to it, his body
jerking in a peculiar, off-beat cadence as he walked.
As he sat down before the controls, a calm voice echoed in his memory,
going through his mind like a cold breeze.
"Let yourself get emotionally involved in a problem and it'll turn
around and bite you."
He forced himself to sit back, his hands away from the controls.
Then he looked back at the body on the courtyard paving.
[Illustration]
Gorham had implied that he was the power behind the whole present
regime. Maybe he'd been bragging. But again, maybe he hadn't. There had
been a queer, hard force about the man. There had been an aura which
Don had sensed, but could not analyze. One thing was certain. This man
had never been able to work under someone else's orders.
He looked around the interior of the flier.
"It's a Royal Guard job," he told himself.
He could see painted legends, giving cautions and instructions to
whomever should pilot the ship. He felt under the dash.
There was a light board snapped into clips. He pulled it out and turned
on the cabin lights.
Yes, it was all there. Instructions for the identification
devices--description of the identification and warning lights. It gave
the location of switches--the settings for communications. There was
even a small card inserted in a pocket. It gave the communications code
used by patrol fliers in routine communication. Don smiled happily.
Now, he could fly back to the hills. It would only take a few minutes,
and----
Why should he? There was an easier way now.
It would be much easier to ride this flier right on into Oreladar. If
he headed for the hills, questions might be asked which would be hard
to answer. But Oreladar would be the normal place for Gorham to go. And
the Federation compound wasn't too far from the Palace. He could feint
at the Palace landing pad, then---- He nodded and studied the lighting
plan and identification settings.
At last, he nodded in satisfaction, then turned his attention to the
small card with the operations code. It was a simple, systematic
arrangement, obviously arranged for day-to-day use, not for secrecy. He
nodded and clipped it in front of him under the panel light, where he
could see it easily. Then, he looked thoughtfully at the courtyard.
There was a small chance that some guard might decide to come into the
house, he decided. Of course, it was still to be regarded as a private
home, and they had no right to---- He laughed sarcastically.
"That would worry them!" he said aloud.
He got out of the flier and leaned over the body of Gorham. It was
surprisingly light. The man had been carrying almost unbelievable
strength and power of will in a tiny, frail body. Don threw his load
over his shoulder and climbed back into the flier. Then he sat back and
looked dully at the control panel.
* * * * *
Suddenly, he felt completely drained. It was just too much effort to
get this ship off the ground. And that long flight to Oreladar? Just
how much was a guy supposed to do in one day?
He sat supinely for a few minutes, simply staring at a nothingness
beneath the surface of the panel. A small noise from the house aroused
him, and he jerked up. He'd have to move.
Unwillingly, he pulled at the controls and the flier raised from the
paving.
A blast of air hit the side of his face and he turned his head. He'd
forgotten to close the door. He snarled at himself in annoyance, then
leaned over and jerked at the handle. The ship swayed and dipped toward
the lighted streets and he straightened quickly and righted it with a
jerk. Then he snapped off the cabin lights and reached down to set up
the identification patterns.
A tinny voice snapped at him.
"Rano ninety-one, Riandar control. Seven three seven."
Don looked at the code card before him. Yes, there it was. "Return to
station." He glanced at the call sign on the panel before him. He was
Onarati three. He nodded. Only an important official would be in this
flier. Probably Gorham hadn't been bragging so much.
Another voice had acknowledged the order. Don looked at the speaker
grill and shrugged. He set his course southward.
Again and again, the speaker rattled with calls and answers. Riandar
control appeared to be busy tonight. Don smiled.
"The busier they are, the better," he told himself. "Then they can't
bother me." He coughed.
"Wonder how Korentana made out?" He looked overside.
Abruptly, he was aware of another flier close to his. On its top a blue
light blinked glaringly. He looked at it in consternation. Had
they----? But how? He started to pull the control to him and go into
evasive flight. Then he stopped.
"Use your head," he advised himself.
He reached out and scooped up the microphone. For an instant, he looked
into space, thinking, then he spoke.
"Riandar control," he snarled in an imitation of Gorham's voice.
"Onarati three. Got one of your guys on my back. What's the idea?" He
released the button.
"Oh, boy," he told himself, "I hope that's the right approach." He
looked toward the back of the cabin. If his short contact with Gorham
had told him enough, and if he'd judged correctly ... and if Gorham
was----
The speaker crackled. "Onarati three, Riandar control," it said. "Seven
zero five?"
Don looked down at the card under the panel light. Yes, there it was.
"Give your location."
He mashed the microphone button again. "Seven hundred meters," he
snarled impatiently. "South edge of town. Come on, what's this guy
doing, riding my tail?"
Another voice intruded into the speaker. "Your pardon, Onarati three,"
it said. "This is Rano two four. We cannot read your identification
lights."
Don looked down at the panel, then shook his head in annoyance. He'd
neglected one switch. He reached out and snapped it on. Then he pushed
the mike button again.
"So now you happy?" he demanded. "So why ain't ya telling me something,
instead of coming around with all them blinking lights?"
The other flier sheered away, its blinker off.
"Your pardon," said the speaker. "We were not sure."
Don sighed in relief. That had been too close for comfort. He glanced
down, then blinked and looked again.
"Oh, no!" he growled incredulously. "I left my clothes by the pool."
* * * * *
Kent Michaels opened his eyes. In front of him was a shattered
windshield. The light support struts were bent back. The heavy plastic
had crackled and powdered. He stared at it. It must have been quite an
impact. All he could remember was confused motion, then blackness.
He shook his head to clear his vision, then started to unfasten his
seat belt.
And his whole left side exploded as each individual muscle and nerve
set up a separate protest. He gritted his teeth against the sharp, red
knives of agony.
"Got to reach that belt and get out of here," he told himself. "Wonder
how long I've been out?"
He forced his hand to the buckle, then stopped.
"Oh, sure, you idiot," he said aloud. "Go ahead and let the belt go.
You can't hurt yourself by landing on your thick head."
He forced himself to ignore the agony in his side and shoulder and
looked around the cabin. Evidently, the ship had hit and rolled. He
closed his eyes, trying to remember.
He'd evaded the pass that first guy had made at him. Then, when the
second one showed up and dove in, he'd gone into a dead-duck spin. So
far, so good. Evidently, they'd been fooled. Probably never saw that
gag before. But what had happened after that? He searched his memory.
Oh, sure. He'd spun the ship under this overhang and set it down. And
the ground had double-crossed him. Even a duck couldn't have kept a
foothold on that ledge. He could remember the sudden tilt as the flier
slid over and started to roll. Then everything had happened at once. He
could remember trying to hold off the windshield from beating his
brains out, but---- He opened his eyes. No use trying to analyze that
part of it. Things had become confusing.
No matter how you figured it, he was here, hanging upside down in his
seat belt in a pretty thoroughly wrinkled up ship. He moved his left
arm experimentally.
His side went into screaming agony again.
Well, anyway, the shoulder wasn't broken. It could move--a little.
"Great," he told himself. "Now, how do you get out of this seat belt
without breaking your stupid neck?"
He reached out with his right hand, to feel the padded roof under him.
Well, maybe he could---- He set his teeth and forced his left hand to
the belt release. If he could just hold enough weight with that right
hand so that---- Well, no use worrying about it. Something had to be
done. He pushed against the release. The shoulder screamed almost
aloud. He started levering the buckle apart with his thumb.
Suddenly, the belt let go and he was struggling to put enough power
into his right arm to hold himself away from the approaching roof.
For a seeming eternity, he struggled to maintain his balance and ease
himself down. Then there was a soft bump. He sank into soft, cushioned
blackness.
It was dark when he opened his eyes again. Incuriously, he rolled his
eyes from side to side. He could see nothing. He let himself slip back
into the soft nothingness.
Slowly, he came back to being. For a timeless instant, he examined a
cushion which lay just before his eyes. Then pain messages started
clamoring for attention. There were too many of them to unscramble.
Everything was screaming at once.
He breathed in shallow gasps, then forced himself out of his cramped
position. At last, he managed to get to his knees and crawl out of the
gaping hole where a door had been. Outside, he collapsed to the ground
and lay, panting.
Slowly, he gathered strength and struggled to his feet. At least, his
legs were in working order.
He looked back at the ship, then whistled.
"What a mess! How'd I ever get out of that one?"
He shook his head to clear it, then examined the cave.
The ledge, he discovered, wasn't particularly high. It had just been
enough to roll the ship. The slope of the ground and the back wall of
the cave had done the real damage. He reached out with his right hand
and grabbed a vine. Yes, he could walk himself up the ledge with that.
And that would get him out of here.
He turned back and inched himself inside the flier again. The emergency
food pack was there. Unbroken, too. He fished it out and opened it,
forcing the almost useless left arm to lend a little support as the
right worked at the fastenings.
The food concentrate actually tasted good.
It could be a lot worse, he thought. Those two murderers had jumped him
only a few kilometers from Kordu valley. Unless he was badly mistaken,
this would be Gharu Gorge. It was steep-walled, but it could be
climbed. And once he got to the rim, it would be only a days walk to
Korelanni.
"Not too bad," he told himself. "Anybody for mountain climbing?"
He got to his feet, reeling a little as his side protested against the
indignity of being forced into motion. Probably a broken rib or two, he
thought. He brought his right hand over and ran his fingers delicately
over the left collar bone, from neck to shoulder. Then, he nodded. It
seemed to be in one piece. Might be cracked, but it'd hold together--he
hoped.
Slowly, he started pulling himself up the bank, pausing now and then to
regain his balance and take a new grip.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Narn Hense gave a snort of irritation, then walked across
the guardroom and switched the television off. Those news broadcasts
gave him an acute, three-dimensional pain. It was normal, he supposed,
for propaganda to sneak into a state-controlled broadcast, but did it
have to be so damn----
"Oh, the devil with it," he said aloud. "I just help run the Security
Guard around here. The Commissioner can worry about policy--and
diplomatic relations, too."
He glanced at the clock on his desk, then reached out to grab his hat.
"Better take another look at the guard while I'm at it," he told
himself.
He strode out of the office, hooking his sidearm belt from a hanger as
he went by.
It would be a good idea, he decided, to check post number four first
this time. The landing pad guard had been a little less than perfectly
alert tonight.
"Probably worrying about last night," he told himself. He smiled
reminiscently.
Moresma had been pretty worried and scared when the patrol had brought
him in. They'd gotten him out of the jam and kept him out of trouble,
but it had been close. The local authorities didn't seem to have much
sense of humor when it came to Federation personnel. In fact, they
seemed to welcome incidents that could----
"Funny," he told himself. "There are plenty of Galactics here, too.
They get along fine, but let one of our guardsmen drop a chewing gum
wrapper---- Oh, well. One of those things, I guess." He walked around
the corner of the building and strode down a hedge bordered path.
As he walked, he looked about at the dark Commission buildings. It was
a large compound. There were several posts and it took a large security
guard detachment to give it adequate protection. He glanced up at the
sky.
A blue-lit flier was coming toward him, flying rather low. Suddenly,
its lights blinked out.
Hense looked at the suddenly dark shape incredulously. It seemed to be
arcing down, toward the compound. He started forward at a run.
Either that pilot was out of control, or he was crazy. In any event, he
was going to crash in the compound unless his luck was fantastically
good. He'd been coming in fast, too. The lights had indicated an
official Oredanian ship.
This, he decided, was definitely irregular.
As he got to the pad, the ship came to an abrupt halt overhead. Then,
it came down in a blur of speed. Not more than half a meter from the
pavement, it checked its fall and settled. A door popped open.
Hense flipped his light from his belt and snapped it on. The guard, he
noted approvingly, had been prompt. The man had dashed up and now stood
close by the flier, his weapon at the ready.
A figure came out of the flier and stopped.
"Put out that light!" snapped an annoyed voice.
Hense snapped the switch on his hand light, then stared at the figure
by the flier.
Now, what was this? He wasn't accustomed to taking orders from some
joker that barged in and shot an unauthorized landing. He was the one
who should be giving the orders. He started to raise the light again.
"Leave that light out, hang it," said the voice sharply. "I don't feel
like being a target. And you! Don't point that thing at me! Now come
on, both of you. Let's get out of the open. Take cover!"
Hense shook his head dazedly. It wasn't right, but there didn't seem to
be much room for argument right now. Somehow, that voice carried
authority. Moresma hadn't hesitated. He was following the dim figure
which ran from the side of the flier. The lieutenant turned and headed
for a nearby building. There was a wide overhang there, close to the
ground.
Another ship was screaming in, its lights darkened. As Hense dove for
cover, brilliant light pinpointed the grounded flier. The guard and the
unknown rolled in beside him.
There was a brilliant flash from the landing pad, then a heavy
concussion made Hense's chest contract. Lurid flames rose skyward. The
attacking flier rose sharply and disappeared. Hense looked after it
incredulously.
"Close," commented the new-comer. "Thought for a few seconds I wasn't
going to make it. Sure didn't think they'd be with it that fast." He
turned and the lieutenant examined him curiously.
Even in the dim light, it was obvious he was pretty young. Khlorisana,
as nearly as Hense could tell. Might be a half-caste, of course. But
what was he doing here? Why a near crash landing? And who had the
eternal gall to pull an attack on a grounded ship right in the
Commission compound?
He continued to stare. Come to think of it, what had this joker done
with his clothes? Nothing on him but a pair of shorts.
The other noticed the officer's gaze and looked down.
"Yeah, I know." He grinned. "I got busy a while ago. Forgot to put 'em
back on. Didn't realize I'd left every rag behind till I was well on my
way." He looked at the ground thoughtfully.
"Wonder if they'll trace Korentona through them? Well----" He faced
Hense again.
"I'm Don Michaels," he announced. He held out a large book he had been
carrying under his arm.
"Look," he added. "I've brought in something really hot. How about
taking me over to see the commissioner? I've got to see him right
away."
* * * * *
For more than five years, the ink of First Lieutenant Hense's
commission had been perfectly dry. He'd been in one major campaign and
he'd served on more than one outworld. For his entire commissioned
career, he'd been a Security Guard Officer. And he'd never had a
reputation for being at all tolerant when regulations were broken--or
even bent.
He looked angrily at the man before him.
"I don't care," he said distinctly, "if you're Hosanna, the Great. What
I want to----"
"Oh, be quiet!" Michaels held up an impatient hand. "I hate to be
impolite about this, but it's no joke. I've got something hot
here--really hot. I want to see Commissioner Jackson. And when he finds
out what I've got, he's going to want to see me. Now let's get over and
find him. Move!"
Hense turned and stepped off. This, he decided, wasn't real. He must be
dreaming. He tried to stop, but found it was impossible. He'd been
given definite instructions, and----
He walked toward the path to the Residence. Behind him, he heard the
newcomer's voice.
"You can go back to your post, guard. Better watch it, though. One of
those Royal Guard ships might try a landing. Might be a good idea to
get a few more men out there."
Again, Hense tried to turn around and challenge this fellow. Hang it,
he was the Officer of the Guard. He was supposed to be giving the
orders. In fact, he should have this fellow in the detention cell by
now, waiting for the major to see him in the morning. He paused in
mid-stride.
"Never mind stopping, lieutenant," Michaels told him. "Just keep going.
I want to see the commissioner before Stern's people figure out
something really good."
Hense gave up. He must be asleep. It was the only possible answer. Of
course, that was bad, too. On some stations, an Officer of the Guard
was permitted to take a nap between guard checks. But Major Kovacs had
some sort of a thing about that. He'd made it clear that there was
plenty of time for napping during off-watch time. His officers, he said
positively, would never sleep while their men were on guard.
And he made checks, too. Hense struggled with himself. He had to wake
up.
It was insane. How, he wondered, could a guy be asleep and
dreaming--and know it? And, knowing it, why couldn't he wake himself
up? This was pure fantasy. Yeah, dream stuff. He waited nervously.
Any time now, the major could be coming around to check the guardroom.
Then the roof would fall in. Any minute now, he could expect to hear a
window-shattering roar.
"Halt!"
It was the Residence Guard. Post number two.
"All right," Michaels' voice was low. "Hold up. Answer him. Have him
continue his tour, and let's be on our way."
Hense stopped. "Officer of the Guard," he said loudly.
"Advance, one, to be recognized."
Hense sighed and stepped forward, then halted again at the guard's
command.
The man flashed a light on him, then raised his weapon to his face and
snapped it to the raise position again.
"I recognize you, sir. Any special instructions?"
"None. Just continue on your post."
Inwardly, Hense was reaching the boiling point. That hadn't been what
he'd intended to say, dammit! He----
"Pardon, sir," the guard was saying, "but how about this man here?"
Now, Hense realized, there must be something really going on. Dream
creatures just couldn't walk out of a man's mind and show up in front
of an alert guard. Or had he completely lost gyro synch? He----
Michaels broke in again. "It's all right, guard. Just continue on your
post. And keep an especially sharp lookout from now on."
"Yes, sir." The guard snapped his weapon up to his face again, then
holstered it and turned to continue his tour.
Hense looked after him.
It wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare.
He resumed his pacing, toward the Residence.
"Oh, well," he thought resignedly, "might as well relax and enjoy it.
Wonder what'll happen next."
Commissioner Jackson himself came to the door.
"What was that fire, lieutenant?" he demanded. He noticed Michaels.
"And what have we here?" He drew his head back a little, frowning.