"They do. And they'll shock excite a mentacom, completely distorting its
wave pattern. If they remain conscious and scared, their fear is deadly
to its object." Meinora drew a deep breath.
"As I said, you were lucky. The girl fainted and let you get away." He
shrugged and turned to Barskor.
"We'll have to change our mode of operation," he added. "We'll pick up
the Earl's mentacom and belt at the hunt tomorrow. Find him alone,
knock him out with a paralyzer, and give him parahypnosis afterward.
It's not so good, but it's effective. But be sure you are alone, and
don't try to use visual refraction under any circumstance. Be better to
be seen, if it comes to that. There might be another transvisor around."
He kicked gently at the seat beside him.
"This was just a secondary job, done in passing," he said, "but it's a
good thing we found this out when we did. It'll change our whole primary
plan. Now, we'll have to slog it out the hard way. On no account can
anyone refract. It might be suicide. We'll have to talk to travelers. We
want to know what abnormal or unusual developments have taken place in
what country in the last twenty years. Then, we'll have to check them
out. We've got a lot of work to do." He looked around. "Ciernar."
"Yes, sir?" The communications operator looked up.
"Send in a report on this to Group. Make it 'operational.'"
[Illustration]
Konar tilted his head a little. "Say, chief, you said the transvisor's
fear was amplified by my mentacom. What if I wasn't wearing one?"
"You wouldn't feel a thing," Meinora smiled. "But don't get any ideas.
Without amplification, you couldn't control your shield properly. You'd
have protection, but your refraction control's entirely mental, and
levitation direction depends on mental, not physical control, remember?"
"But how about you? You don't use amplification. Neither do several of
the other team chiefs."
Meinora shrugged. "No," he admitted, "we don't need it, except in
abnormal circumstances. But we don't go around scaring transvisors. They
can't kill us, but they can make us pretty sick. You see we're a little
sensitive in some ways." He shook his head. "No, the only advantage I've
got is that I can spot a transvisor by her mental pattern--if I get
close enough. There's a little side radiation that can be detected,
though it won't pass an amplifier. When you've felt it once, you'll
never forget it. Makes you uncomfortable." He smiled wryly.
"And you can believe me," he added, "when I do get close to a
transvisor, I'm very, very careful not to frighten her."
* * * * *
Winter passed, and spring, and summer came. Nal Gerda, Officer of the
Guard, stood on the small wharf below the old watchtower. He looked
across the narrows, examined the cliff opposite him, then looked upward
at the luminous sky. There were a few small clouds, whose fleecy
whiteness accentuated the clear blue about them. Brilliant sunshine
bathed the wharf and tower, driving away the night mists.
It would not be long before the new guard came down the cliff. Gerda
stretched and drew a deep breath, savoring the summer morning air. Now,
it was pleasant, a happy contrast to the sullen skies and biting winter
winds he had faced a few short months ago.
For a time, he looked at the green atop the cliffs, then he transferred
his attention upriver, toward the bend where the Nalen came out of the
pass to blow between the iron cliffs of Menstal. The water flowed
swiftly in the narrows, throwing off white glints as its ripples caught
the sunlight, then deepening to a dark blue where it came into the
shadow of the cliffs.
A sudden call sounded from the lookout far above, and the officer
wheeled about, looking to the great chain which stretched from tower to
cliff, to block river traffic. It was in proper position, and Gerda
looked back at the bend.
As he watched, a long, low barge drifted into sight, picking up speed as
it came into the rapid current. Polemen balanced themselves alertly in
the bow, their long sticks poised to deflect their course from any
threatening rocks.
Gerda threw off the almost poetical admiration of beauty that had
possessed him a moment before and faced the guard house, from whence
came a scuffle of feet and the clank of arms, to tell of the guard's
readiness.
"Turn out the Guard." Gerda drew himself up into a commanding pose.
A group of men-at-arms marched stiffly out, followed by a pair of serfs.
The leader saluted Gerda with upraised hand.
"The Guard is ready, My Captain," he proclaimed. "May the tax be rich."
Gerda returned the salute. "It will be," he stated positively. "These
merchants have learned by now that to insult Portal Menstal with poor
offerings is unwise in the extreme. And, mark me, they'll not forget!"
The barge approached and swung in toward the wharf in obedience to
Gerda's imperious gesture. One of the polemen jumped ashore, securing a
line to a bollard.
The steersman climbed to the dock, to halt a pace in front of Gerda. He
folded his hands and bowed his head submissively.
"Does Your Honor desire to inspect the cargo?"
"Of course." Gerda's haughty glance appraised the man from toe to crown.
"Quickly now. I've little time to waste." He glanced back at his clerk,
who had a tablet ready.
"Your name, Merchant?"
"Teron, of Krongert, may it please you, sir. I have been to----"
Gerda waved an impatient hand. "Save me your speech, Higgler," he said
curtly. "What's your cargo value?"
"Six thousand teloa, Your Honor. We have----"
"Unload it. I'll look at it." Gerda waved the man to silence.
* * * * *
As the bales of goods were placed on the wharf, Gerda examined them
critically. A few, he ordered set aside after a quick check and a few
questions. Others, he ordered opened and spread out. At last, satisfied
with his estimate of the cargo's valuation, he turned.
"Your choice, Merchant?"
"I would pay, Your Honor," said the man, "to the tenth part of my
cargo." He extended a leather bag.
"Don't haggle with me," snapped Gerda. "The tax is a fifth of your
cargo, as you should well know." His hand sought his sword hilt.
The merchant's face fell a little, and he produced a second bag, which
he held out to the officer. "I must apologize," he said. "I am new to
this land."
"See that you learn its customs quickly, then." Gerda handed the bags to
his clerk.
"Check these, Lor," he ordered. "I make it a thousand, six hundred
teloa."
An expression of dismay crossed the merchant's face.
"Your Honor," he wailed, "my cargo is of but six thousand valuation. I
swear it."
Gerda stepped forward swiftly. His hand raised, to swing in a violent,
back-handed arc, his heavy rings furrowing the merchant's face. The man
staggered back, involuntarily raising a hand to his injured cheek.
As a couple of the men-at-arms raised their pikes to the ready, the
merchant righted himself, folded his hands again, and bowed in
obeisance. Blood trickled down his chin, a drop spattering on his
clothing. He ignored it.
"You would dispute my judgment?" Gerda drew his hand up for a second
blow. "Here is no market place for your sharp bargaining. For your
insolence, another five hundred teloa will be exacted. Make speed!"
The merchant shook his head dazedly, but offered no word of protest.
Silently, he dug into his possessions, to produce a third bag. For a
moment, he weighed it in his hand, then reached into it, to remove a few
loose coins. Without raising his head, he extended the bag to the
officer of the guard.
Gerda turned. Lor had gone into the guard house, to count the other two
bags. The officer raised his voice.
"Lor, get back out here. I've more for you to count."
He tossed the bag to the clerk, then stood, glaring at the unfortunate
trader. At last, he kicked the nearest bale.
"Well," he growled, "get this stuff off the wharf. What are you waiting
for?"
He watched the barge crew load, then turned. Lor came from the guard
house.
"All is in order, My Captain."
"Very well." Gerda looked at him approvingly. Then, he swung to the
merchant, fixing him with a stern glare.
"We shall make note of your name, Merchant. See thou that you make
honest and accurate valuation in the future. Another time, we shall not
be so lenient. The dungeon of Menstal is no pleasant place."
He watched till the last of the bargeload was stowed, then nodded
curtly.
"You may shove off," he said. He turned his head toward the tower.
"Down chain," he ordered loudly.
* * * * *
The windlass creaked protestingly and the heavy chain dropped slowly
into the river. The barge steered to the center of the channel,
gathering speed as it passed over the lowered chain.
When the barge had cleared, serfs inside the tower strained at the
windlass in obedience to the commands of their overseer, and the chain
rose jerkily, to regain its former position across the stream.
Gerda watched for a moment, then strode toward the guard house. He went
inside, to look at the bags of coin on the counting table.
"Cattle," he growled, "to think they could cheat the Baron Bel Menstal
of his just tax."
He stepped back out for a moment, to watch the merchant barge enter the
rapids beyond the chain. Then, he swung about and re-entered the tower.
Inside, he sat down at his counting table. He opened the bags, spilling
their contents out on the boards, and checked their count.
There were forty-eight over.
He turned to his clerk.
"What was your count, Lor?"
"Two thousand, one hundred, sir, and forty-eight."
"Very good." Gerda smiled a little. "For once in his thieving life, the
merchant was anxious to give full weight."