"Do you mean to tell me you haven't anything to report on them?"
"We have sent out investigating ships, sir."
"And?"
"They haven't reported back, sir."
Sira Nal's checks paled slightly with rage as he stared at his
underling.
"Miron," he snapped, "I'm not going to tell you exactly what to do, or
how. You're supposed to know how to treat emergencies, not to call me
any time something outside of routine happens. I want a report on those
ships tomorrow morning." He glanced out of the window. "I don't care how
you do it, but find out what happened, and I don't ever want to hear you
admit again that you can't account for any ship I ask about. Is that
clear?"
Miron nodded unhappily. "Yes, sir." He bowed and backed out of the room.
He forced himself to suppress his anger as he gently closed the door.
Then, he stood for a moment, fists clenched, as he directed a furious
gaze at the panels.
"How?" he thought. "How does he expect me to know what's going on at sea
unless ships come in to give me information, or I am able to go out
personally. And how does he expect me to make a personal check in one
night?"
He started walking along the corridor. "I have no supernatural powers,
and he knows it. He's the prophet. Wish I'd never--"
He looked at the walls around him, then shook his head. No use thinking
of that. None had ever successfully left the service of Kondaro. He
continued to a stair, mounted it, then climbed ladders, to finally come
out at the observation platform atop the temple. The observer bowed as
his superior entered the little room just below the torch.
"Have there been any arrivals?"
"None, sir. I've seen no sails."
"I am going to send you an acolyte. If you see anything, send him to me
immediately." Miron turned to go back to his quarters.
* * * * *
After Miron's departure, Sira Nal sat for a time, still staring at the
closed door. He had caught the wave of frustrated rage, and had almost
responded for a second. But, he was forced to admit, the priest had
justification. He had organized his forces adequately--had been a useful
piece, within his limitations.
"I wonder," mused Sira Nal, "if Buron's pulling a sneak punch." He
tilted his head. "It would be a little foul, but he might try something
like that." He reviewed the rules they had agreed upon.
After all, this phase of his operation was outside of the home zone, and
he was actually vulnerable to attack, even this early. He had assumed
that Buron would be too busy developing his own pieces to spend any time
on an offensive move at this stage. Of course, direct intervention was a
little unethical, but Buron might try it.
He had thought his opponent would be too occupied to notice a move at
this remote part of the board. And he had established this advance base
by direct intervention, too. If Buron had noticed, and if he had checked
Nal's methods, he might have felt justified, and have taken time for a
quick, disruptive move. And Sira Nal was forced to admit that such a
move might be allowed by Kir. It might be even approved, and hailed as a
brilliant counter.
He rose to his feet, pacing about the room. If this were a move by
Buron, the priesthood would be powerless to counter. It would take
direct action by the player, of course. He grumbled to himself.
"Can't let this development be wasted. I'd lose too much time. I'll have
to check personally."
He crossed to the window, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony.
Outside, the sun glinted on the harbor. A ship was standing out to sea,
sails set to pick up the breeze from the headland. Sira Nal looked over
toward the shipyards. It was a well organized secondary base, and it
would probably develop into a highly valuable position. Somehow, he
doubted that Buron would have been able to do as well, considering the
time factor. He shook his head. This must be retained.
He threw the robe back, checked his equipment belt, adjusted his body
shield, and stepped off the balcony, activating his levitation
modulator. He swung around the outgoing ship, noting the activity aboard
with approval, then headed seaward, to follow the route he had
prescribed for his navigators. Somewhere out there, he would undoubtedly
find Buron, poised to strike at any ship which bore the red and gold of
Kondaro.
And when he did find him, he knew, he would have to outline a counter
move which would force immunity to his sea lanes. He considered the
possibilities as he sped over the sea.
* * * * *
Musa sat before the detector, idly watching the vague patterns that grew
and collapsed on the viewscreen. The scanner, Lanko had explained,
picked up ghost images from heated air masses, or from clouds, but it
discriminated against them, refusing to form a definite image unless a
material body came within range. Then, it indicated range and azimuth,
checked the body against the predetermined data, and the selective
magnification circuits cut in.
As Musa watched, a sea bird appeared on the screen, outlined sharply
against the darkness of the sea. The viewscreen tracked it for an
instant, then continued its scan. Another body showed, seeming to come
from under the sea. Musa looked at it curiously, then noticed that the
range marks had tripped on. The screen was holding the object at center.
A slight glow appeared, obscuring visual detail, and more marks showed
in the legend. Musa turned around.
"Banasel," he called, "what's this?"
Banasel was engaged in his usual pastime of tinkering with the
equipment. He looked around, then walked quickly over to the screen, to
make adjustments. The object came into sharp focus, revealing itself as
a man in the robes of Kondaro. Range and azimuth lines became clearly
defined, and a graph showed in the legend space. Banasel glanced down at
the dials.
"Hey, Lanko," he called, "we've got a customer."
"Where?" Lanko came out of the mess compartment.
"About seventy-one, true, and coming in fast. Range, about a hundred
K's." Banasel twisted dials, watching the result on the screen. "Looks
as though our friend's coming in for a conference."
"Screens?"
"Personal body shield. Probably a Morei twelve. Nothing special."
Lanko got into the gunner's chair and punched a button. The sight screen
lit, showing the approaching body clearly. He turned a knob, increasing
magnification.
"All dressed up in his ceremonial robes, too," he laughed. "This kid
could have done well as a clothing designer."
He adjusted a few knobs, examining a meter. Then, he reached for the
weapon's grip.
"No point in discussing matters with him now. He can talk after we get
him in, and he's just about in range now." He brought the hair-lines on
the viewscreen to center on the approaching figure, and squeezed the
grip.
* * * * *
Sira Nal felt the sudden pressure. Annoyed, he reached to his belt, to
turn his shield to full power. This was highly unethical. Buron should
certainly know better than to resort to personal attack. Such action
could be protested, and Sira Nal could demand concessions.
He looked ahead, searchingly. The horizon ahead was broken by a faint
cloud, which indicated the islands, but there was no evidence of his
opponent. He shook his head, and started to rise, but his shield was
failing. Suddenly, he became aware of the overheating generator pack.
Something was decidedly wrong. He reached for his own hand weapon, still
searching for his attacker. At last, he noticed a slight shimmer, dead
ahead. He pointed the weapon.
"Now, now," cautioned a voice, "you could get hurt that way. Close down
your shield and relax. This is a guard flier. You're in arrest tractor."
Sira Nal recognized that the tractor was pulling him ahead. His
generator pack was heating up dangerously.
He was being captured!
Furiously, he thought of the attacks he had made in similar manner, in
this same area. He still could remember the horrified expression on one
shipowner's face just before his ship broke to bits under him.
They wouldn't get him, though.
They couldn't.
He would blast them out of his path. Just as he had blasted the
presumptuous natives who opposed him.
Thumbing the hand weapon to full blast, he centered it on the faint
shimmer ahead, and squeezed the trigger.
Let the meddlers look out for themselves.
* * * * *
Banasel winced a little as the fireball spread, then rose skyward, to
form a large cloud.
"You could have relaxed," he protested. "The blast wouldn't have jolted
our screen too much, and you could have gotten him again."
"I know." Lanko flicked off the gunnery switches and leaned back,
rubbing his head. "There was a possibility, and I fully intended to
relax. But the decision time was short, and frankly, those thoughts of
his overrode me for just too long. That boy was dangerous!"
He turned to Genro Kir, who was looking with horrified fascination at
the still growing cloud in the screen.
"It's unfortunate. We'll try to get your other partner alive."
"You destroyed him!" Kir looked a little sick.
"No. We didn't destroy him. He should have known better than to fire
into a tractor. I'll have to admit, I did slip a little. I assumed he
was the usual type of drone. I didn't recognize the full extent of his
aberration."
Lanko got out of his chair, and crossed the room, to confront the
prisoner.
"Look, Kir. I don't know whether your other partner's like that one or
not. But I think it's about time you helped a little. If you had given
us clues to Sira Nal's personality and probable location, we might have
been able to take precautions. He might be with us now. Or, do you enjoy
seeing your friends turn themselves into flaming clouds of smoke?"
"You mean I ... I'm responsible ... for that?"
"Partially. You helped them. You refused any assistance in their
capture. And you knew they were going to be captured, one way or
another."
Kir directed a horrified look at the screen.
"What can I do?"
"Get in contact with Koree Buron. Tell him what happened here. Tell him,
too, that we're looking for him, and that there is a Sector Guardsman
due to join us within a few hours. Explain to him that there will be
direction-finders on him very soon, and that any effort he may make to
use his body shield, his weapons, or even his thought-radiations, will
be noted, and will lead to him.
"Once you establish contact, we will ride in, if you wish. And we can
assure him that he'll be either hunted down promptly, or he will have to
assume and accept the role of a native--and a very inconspicuous,
uninfluential native, at that.
"Tell him that he is free to come to us and surrender at any time within
the next twenty hours, planetary. After that, he will be taken by the
most expedient means. After the surrender deadline, you can assure him
that his life will be of less importance to us, and to the Sector
Guardsman, than that of the most humble native.
"Here's your mental amplifier, if you need it."
Genro Kir looked at the proffered circlet, then slowly extended a hand.
He took the device, turned it around in his hands for a few moments,
then put it on.
Suddenly, his face set in decision, and he sat quietly for a while, grim
faced. At last, he looked up.
"I got him. He argued a little, but he had a poor argument, and he knew
it. He'll be here within an hour, screens down."