The Best Made Plans by Everett B. Cole (1959)

Posted on March 2nd, 2008

They walked through the door of the hut, stopping as they came inside. An old man sat on a hide-covered stool, facing the entrance. Near him stood Jasu Waern. The old man got to his feet.

“Waernpeto?” he asked.

Pete stepped forward and bowed. “I am Peto of the clan Waern,” he said.

“It is good.” The Korental nodded briefly, then looked at Don.

“And Michaels. I know you,” he added.

Don looked at him curiously. There was that odd form of address again. Had he suddenly come to be regarded as clanless? What was this? He bowed.

“I know you, Korental,” he said formally.

The old man before him nodded.

“We are not now sure how to address you,” he explained. “Your father may yet be alive, so we cannot regard you as clan head. But as your father has not been found you may, therefore, be clan head in fact. The men of clan Mal-ka have joined us in searching the gorge of the Gharu, where his flier was shot down. Thus far, nothing has been found. It is a long gorge, and deep.”

“Dad?” Don blinked. “Shot down?”

The Korental nodded. “Two days since,” he said. “A flier of the Royal Guard fired upon him and his flier weaved and dropped into the gorge. No man saw its landing place.” He paused thoughtfully.

“Nor were there flames.”

Don glanced about the hut. It was the same place he had come to many times before, when he wanted to get beaters. It was familiar. And yet it was now a place of strangeness. Suddenly, he felt rootless—disassociated from people. He struggled to regain his poise and retain the formal manner expected of him. He managed a bow of acknowledgment.

“I thank the Korental for this information,” he said. “I beg permission to await further word under his protection.”

Somehow, he couldn’t imagine anyone succeeding in shooting his father out of the sky. Kent Michaels had been one of the hottest fighter men in the guard. And even if he hadn’t been able to get away from the guy, he’d have taken him down with him. How…? He jerked his attention to the Korental.

The old man had inclined his head. “My clan is yours during this time of trouble,” he was saying. He looked toward Pete.

“And you are he who would be King of the Oredanu?”

Pete nodded. “I am.”

“I see. Your father tells me of certain agreements made many years ago. He tells me of relationships, and of your possible adoption into another clan. These things are true?”

Again Pete nodded. “These things are true.”

The old man considered him for a few seconds.

“Among the men of the hills,” he said, “the simple word of a man may be accepted. For only a clanless one would think of speaking other than the truth. But I am told the men of the low countries have no such faith. They require writings, and the speech of many witnesses. This is also true?”

The question was obviously rhetorical. Pete smiled ruefully, but said nothing.

The Korental allowed his lips to curl in a half smile.

“These customs of the plainsmen are not unknown to me,” he said. “Men of my clan have gone to the low country and have dealt with the men of the cities. Even now, members of the Kor-en live in the cities. But on the clan days, they return to their home, here in the hills.” He looked down at the matting on the floor.

“Your father mentions a clan book,” he continued. “Do you have this with you?”

Pete looked at him, then at his father. His expression was suddenly blank.

Jasu Waern stepped forward. “This book is in a safe place,” he said, “in Riandar.”

Don closed his eyes for an instant. “Oh, Brother,” he told himself, “the lights just went out! I’ll bet they’re tearing that house up, stone by stone, about now.”

The Korental nodded slowly. “How safe?”

“Why,” Jasu was thoughtful. “Why, the hiding place is known only to me—and to my son.” He bent his head, then looked up, smiling confidently. “No, it could never be discovered by an outsider.”

“The book must be produced,” the Korental told him. He resumed his seat on the stool and folded his hands over a short staff.

“We of the clans would be happy to support a legitimate claimant to the throne of Oredan. We are not happy with the rule of this outlander who has forced himself into power. But we also recognize the rules and the customs of the nobles of the land, who must have proof of everything before they will act. We are not strangers to the conclave, you must remember. And we are familiar with the power of the outlander.” He looked at Don.

“Tell me,” he said, “do you have an interest in this matter?”

Don nodded. “I am not of the clan Waern,” he said carefully. “But my interests have become tied with theirs. Should the Waernu fail, my father’s lands would be lost. And the climate of this land would become unhealthy for me—as well as for my father, if he still lives.”

“Yes.” The Korental regarded him. “I can understand that. We are not as uncivilized as many think us to be. We watched the broadcast of an attack upon your house.” He tilted his head.

“Tell me,” he added. “The broadcast ended rather suddenly. The announcer mentioned technical difficulties. Can you explain this?”

Don relaxed. The formal session was over for a while.

“I took a shot at them,” he said, “with a Ghar rifle.”

“Ha! They do have a weak spot, then. We’ll discuss this later.” The old man looked at Jasu Waern.

“Let us suppose that this young man should ask to be adopted into your clan. What would your answer be?”

Waern looked confused. “Why—— But he’s been giving us——”

The Korental chuckled. “I know. He has some of those characteristics attributed by legend to clan talu, and to them only.” He bent his head for a moment.

“Suppose I put it this way. When the clans and tribes meet for full consideration of your request for support, you will need strong council. And the councilor who presents your cause must be a member of your clan, of course. He must speak for you, the head of the Waernu.”

Waern looked at him. “I see,” he said thoughtfully. “And here, we may find strong council.” He looked across at Don.

“You would consider this?”

Don paused. This, he thought, was getting serious. It had been fine at first. He had just followed instructions from an experienced agent. And there had been quite a thrill at being in the middle of things. But somehow, everything was flying apart. All at once, he was on his own.

And now—well, clan councilors were pretty responsible individuals. They were supposed to be the experts on law and custom. They were supposed to put things together—and keep them that way. He could remember daydreams he’d had once, of helping run a country. Some of them had been pretty dramatic. But—well, it was beginning to look like real trouble. If things went wrong, a councilor could get his neck on a block for sure.

Then he smiled inwardly. So what of it? How could he get into any more trouble? He already had the entire Enforcement Corps screaming for his blood. He’d killed off a Royal Guard projector crew, an entire Enforcement crew, and a few odd news people. They didn’t like him. But they wanted him. The only way out of this one would be straight ahead. He nodded.

“Of course,” he said simply.

The Korental came to his feet and grabbed his staff. Beside his stool was a battered tone tube. He swung the staff at the dented wood and a deep tone followed the sharp crack.

He wheeled upon the man who came through the door.

“Tell the Korensahn to come up here,” he ordered. “And have him bring five men with him. We have a clan adoption to witness.”

Don flexed his back and hunched his shoulders a little to get the pack-board more comfortably settled. The darn things were heavy. He looked at the others, who walked along the road. Hang it, they seemed to swing along under their loads as though they were just taking a short walk before breakfast. He poked at the hard ground with his stick.

How had he managed to haul himself into this one, anyway? Blasted thing had all seemed so logical, back there in Korelanni. He reviewed the steps.

First, it had been essential that the safety and contents of the Book of the Waernu be determined. Without it, Pete’s claim would be so vague as to be untenable. Especially before a conclave with the regent in active opposition.

Second, the book would have to be placed in safekeeping where it could be immediately produced upon demand. He frowned. That was a tough one. So anyway——

Then, there had come the question. Who was going to get this book and bring it back—or protect it? Pete was too valuable and too vulnerable. He was known, and if any of the police agencies got their hands on him … well, that would be all. So Pete was out.

Jasu Waern? Don grinned to himself. “Skip it,” he told himself. He poked at the ground again with the stick. It was getting hot. And he was thirsty.

“Hope that gunk they used to monkey up my complexion doesn’t sweat out,” he told himself. “That would do it for sure.”

He glanced up at the sky. It was getting close to midday. Ahead, he could see a few men sitting at the side of the road, leaning back against their packs. He went forward a few more paces, then selected a comfortable looking bit of moss.

So what had happened? A little guy named Donald Michaels had been disguised as a clanless mat maker. He leaned back against the pack. And, brother, had they given him a stock of mats to sell. This clansman in Riandar would be busy for a month, just unloading all these things from his stock.

He thought of those daydreams he had once had. A king’s councilor, he had imagined, was a highly important, greatly respected individual. He had dreamed of himself, dressed in the ornate formal robes he’d seen in pictures of the old nobility. He’d pictured himself exchanging urbane chatter with other beautifully turned out characters, who hung on his every word. He’d seen himself striding between low-bowing lines of assorted courtiers and soldiery, pausing now and then to tap at the pavement with his jeweled staff. He’d—— Hah!

He looked at the dusty trail. He’d been striding, all right, but the field reeds didn’t look too much like bowing lines of—— Yeah, and his staff didn’t have too many jewels, either. No pavement, even, and this fool pack didn’t feel much like a finely tailored robe of office. He shrugged.

“This is no dream,” he told himself. “You let one of Stern’s people get suspicious, and you’ll find out just how real things can get.” He twisted around to get the package of food and the water bottle which dangled from the pack.

Distastefully, he looked at the little packet of powder which was in the food package. He glanced around quickly, then dumped the powder into his mouth, quickly gulping water to wash it down.

“Gaah!” he growled, “does it have to taste like the inside of an old shoe? Oh, well, it’ll keep me nice and dark for the next thirty hours or so.” He pulled a strip of dried meat from the package. Maybe this will help take the taste out.

He sighed and worked his jaws on the leatherlike substance. It started to soften a little.

Well, anyway, he knew how to get to the vault where the ancestral volumes of the Waernu were kept. And he knew just which volume to pick out. Only one small problem remained. How was he going to get into the house—and on into the little pond in the inner garden? He grinned as he thought of Pete’s remark.

“It’ll be simple for you,” he had said enviously. “All you have to do is tell any guard you meet to stand aside and forget he ever saw you. Then you go on down to the vault. Wish I had that ability of yours.”

“Sure,” he told himself, “hang your clothes on yonder bush—and get right into the water. It’s just a simple matter of diving down ten feet and pushing the right rock the right number of times—in the right directions. Nothing to it. And then you go through the pressure trap, and there you are. Simple!”

And who was going to guard the pond while he was down there? Suppose he broke surface right in front of a flock of trigger-happy Enforcers? He sighed.

“Oh, well,” he told himself. “You asked for it. Now, you’ve got it. Have fun.” He looked into the food package and selected a meal cake.

At last, he dusted his fingers and leaned back lazily against his pack, looking into the clear sky. For a few minutes, he simply relaxed, his eyes fixed on the infinite distance, his mind a near blank.

Other pack-laden men strode past him, intent on their destination. At last, a group swung by and the sound of their conversation brought Don out of his semitrance. Behind the group was another, who walked a little faster than the others, in an apparent effort to catch up. Don pushed himself up with the aid of his staff, drew a few deep breaths, and started pacing along behind him.

Ahead, the group went around a curve in the path. The man ahead of Don cut over into the grass, still intent on catching up with his companions, who were not more than a few meters ahead. Don watched him casually.

There was no use, he thought, in trying to keep up with this fellow or his companions. It was too hot. Besides, this was probably a clan group who would not welcome company—especially the company of one of no clan.

He started to slow down to a normal pace, then his attention was caught by movement by a rock just ahead of the other. A small, greenish-brown body was vaguely outlined in the long grass nearly in the man’s path.

Don looked more closely. The animal was heavy-bodied, with rather short forelegs. Powerful hind legs were tucked under the body, twitching a little now. The forelegs pawed slightly at the grass and the flat, wide head probed out, extending toward the approaching man.

“Hey!” yelled Don. “Look out. Gersal!” He started forward in a half run, his staff poised for a blow.

The other jumped sideways but the furry body grazed his leg and spun, claws and teeth working furiously. The man looked down and screamed.

Don’s staff came down in a chopping blow and the animal bounced out onto the open path. Its paws raised little spurts of dust as it spun about and prepared for another spring.

Again, Don’s staff swung down. The gersal flopped about for an instant in the dust of the path, then faced toward him, an angry scream coming from its throat.

Again, it tried to get its balance for a spring, but one hind leg dragged limply. Again, the staff swung, tumbling the beast over in the dust.

There was a flurry of paws and the gersal struggled up to its haunches, then sat up, its brilliant red eyes fixed on Don. It stretched out short forelegs in seeming supplication, then batted futilely at the punching staff end.

Disregarding the pleading attitude of the beast, Don continued to punch at the squirming body till it was obvious that no vestige of life could remain. Then, he looked at the other man.

The fellow had managed to get to the center of the path before he had collapsed. He half sat, half lay against his pack, breathing raggedly. Sweat stood out on his forehead. He looked at Don vaguely, making an obvious effort to focus his eyes.

“Thanks … Friend,” he mumbled. “You tried—— Oooh!” He closed his eyes and stiffened, his legs stretching out and his back arching.

The men who walked ahead had been attracted by the commotion. They came back and one jerked off his pack and bent over the man in the path. He looked over at the dead animal, then glanced up at Don.

“How many times was he bitten?”

“I doubt if he got more than one,” Don told him.

The other nodded and looked searchingly at the victim. Then, he reached into his clothing and removed a small packet. He opened it and pulled the protective cover off a syrette.

“There’s a small chance, then,” he remarked. He poked the needle of the syrette into the sufferer’s forearm and squeezed the tube.

The stricken man moved convulsively and opened one eye. His companion nodded.

“You might make it, Delm,” he said cautiously. “Only one bite, and we got to you soon.” He nodded.

“If you can hang on for just five minutes, you’ll walk the trail again.” He looked up at Don.

“That was quick action,” he said. “You may have saved our clan brother.” He looked down at the torn place on the man’s leg.

“A couple of more bites, and he’d surely be dead by now.” He got to his feet.

“Whom do we have to thank?”

Don looked down at the path in apparent discomfort.

“I am Kalo,” he said, “of the mountains.”

The other’s eyes clouded. “Oh,” he said tonelessly. He looked down at his companion, then back at the dead animal.

“Well,” he said slowly, “we are grateful, Clanless One. Go your way in peace. We will take care of our brother.”

Don started to turn away. “I hope he——”

The other nodded curtly. “The gersal’s poison is strong,” he said. “But soon we shall see. May your way be safe.” He turned back to his patient.

Don turned away and went around the curve in the path. Well, maybe the Korental had been right, he thought. So long as they kept from bothering others, the clanless ones weren’t molested. And they certainly didn’t form any associations that might be embarrassing later on. He glanced back.

“Hope that guy lives through it,” he told himself, “but I’m glad I don’t have to put up with a three-day celebration. Haven’t got the time.”

In the distance, he could see the walls and towers of Riandar. The walk was nearly over now. He stepped his pace up a little, then slowed down again. There was no sense in coming through the gate all hot and sweaty, he reminded himself. It would be way out of character.

It was funny, Don thought, that he hadn’t remembered this store when the Korental had described its location. Probably it was the use of the word “shop.” This was a large department store. He’d done some shopping here at one time or another, himself. He started to go by the front, then a display in one of the windows attracted his attention. He paused.

Someone had designed a tasteful array of furniture, set up like a nobleman’s bedroom suite. One could, without too much effort, imagine himself standing on the enclosed walkway of a palace, facing away from the inner garden. The furniture, he noted, was of excellent quality. In fact, when he started refinishing the ranch, maybe he’d come in here. He glanced at the display floor. The mats were similar in design to those in his pack.

Suddenly, he remembered his own present status and stepped back, away from the window. Simple mat makers don’t concern themselves with examining displays that would cost more than they’d make in a lifetime. This window was strictly for people who could afford large platters of luxury. He turned away, looking for another, less elaborate entrance.

Down the street, at the corner of the building, he found an inconspicuous door. A brass plate indicated that this was the employees’ entrance to the Blue Mountain Mercantile Company’s offices. Another plate indicated that the delivery entrance was around the corner. Don shrugged and went into the door.

He found himself in a narrow hallway. Before him was a stairway, its lowest step blocked by a light chain. To his right, a man sat in a small cubby.

“You’re in the wrong door,” he said expressionlessly. “Deliveries are received around the corner.”

“I know,” Don told him. “I’m from the Kor-en. I’d like to see Korentona.”

The man frowned fleetingly. “Tell you,” he said casually, “maybe it would be better if you made your delivery right now. Then you can come back later on.”

Don examined him for a moment. “You mean something is——”

“That’s right.” The man nodded. “Go around to the receiving room. Drop your pack, and come back—say in about an hour.” He glanced upward as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Oh, oh,” he added softly. “Keep quiet and let me handle this.”

A heavy-set man came down the stairs. He looked sharply at Don, taking in his appearance and the details of his pack.

“What’s this, Mora?” he demanded.

The timekeeper shrugged casually. “Just some porter,” he said negligently. “Can’t read too well, I guess. Got in the wrong door. I was telling him where to drop his pack.”

“Oh?” The other looked at Don more closely. “Looks like another load of those mats from the Morek. Look, Fellow, you wouldn’t be from one of those clans, would you now?”

Don shook his head. “I am Kalo,” he said, “of the mountains. I have no clan. I make mats. And twice a year I come here to Riandar to sell them.”

“Been here before?”

“I have been in Riandar many times.”

“That’s not what I mean. Have you been here—to this store—before?”

Don shook his head. “Not to this store, no. But they told me the Blue Mountain was paying better than some others. I thought I’d try——”

“Yeah,” the other said coldly. “Sure. Now, suppose we take a little walk, you and I? Some people down the street would like to talk to you.”

Don shook his head. “I merely came here to sell mats,” he insisted. “I make good mats.”

The heavy man frowned. “Maybe,” he snapped. “We’ll see about that after we’ve had a talk with you.” He stepped closer. “If you’re just a mat maker, nothing will happen to you. If you really have good mats, you might even get a nice price for some of your stuff. Come on.”

He reached out to take Don’s sleeve. Don stepped back, his face suddenly losing its vague, apologetic expression. His features sharpened, to become hard, uncompromising.

“Get over to that wall, Fellow,” he ordered sharply. “Move!”

The man’s hand dropped. For a moment, he stared slackly at Don.

“Come on!” Don’s voice raised a little. “Get over to that wall. And then stand still.” He started to shuck off the straps of his pack.

The man before him sobbed helplessly, then shuffled away. Don knelt down and stripped the pack off. Then he stepped aside and raised a hand in a beckoning gesture.

“Now get over here,” he snapped. “Pick up that pack and take it up to Mr. Tona’s office. I’ll follow you.”

The man in the cubby rubbed his head for a moment, then picked up the phone. Don swung toward him. “Put that phone back,” he ordered, “and come out of there. You’re coming with us.”

Korentona looked up as the small procession entered his office.

“What’s happened now?”

Don nodded at him, then faced the man with the pack.

“Put that pack down,” he commanded. “Now, stand over there.” He pointed. “And be very quiet.” He glanced at the doorman.

“You can stay where you are.” He looked at Korentona.

“My apologies,” he said, “for being so informal. But I come from the Kor-en, and I had a little trouble. There’s a message for you in the pack. You know, of course, where to find it. Who are these two?”

Korentona looked worried. “This one,” he pointed at the doorman, “is a trusted employee. He’s been with me for years.”

He paused, looking at the other man. “But this one, I have never trusted. I’m sure he reports to the police.”

Don glanced at the doorman. “My apologies,” he said. “You are free to go as you will.” He looked closely at the other.

“Is this correct?” he demanded. “Are you a police agent?”

The man nodded. “That’s right,” he said reluctantly. “I’m supposed to watch this place and report on its visitors.”

“Here,” Don told him, “is one visitor you won’t report.” He stopped, considering, then impaled the man with a cold stare.

“Have you ever seen a man bitten by a gersal?”

The man shrugged. “Yeah. What about it?”

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.

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.

Don interrupted. “Are you Commissioner Jackson?”

“Yes. But——”

“Good! Here, take this.” Don shoved the book out. “And let’s go into your office.”

Benton Jackson looked incredulously at the figure before him. He reached out and accepted the book, then turned.

“Another of those!” he said softly.

Hense followed them inside. There were, he was discovering, peculiar things about this dream business. He had completed his mission. He hadn’t been dismissed. But he could wait here, or he could tag along and see what happened.

“Well, now,” he told himself. “Things are looking up.”

Jackson walked over to his desk, snapping on the room lights as he passed them. He sat down and placed the book on the desk.

“Well,” he demanded, “what’s next?”

Don Michaels reached over the desk and flipped the book open.

“Page seven oh one,” he said simply. “Read it. Then, I’ll start telling you a lot of things.” He hesitated.

“You can read Oredanian script, I hope?”

Jackson nodded in annoyance. “Of course. Part of my business.” He flipped over the pages, looking at numbers. Then he glanced up.

“How about the lieutenant?”

Don faced about. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry. You can go back to your guardroom, lieutenant. I’m sorry I had to get rough with you, but I was in a hurry. Still am, for that matter. Only one more thing. For the love of all that’s holy, have your people keep a sharp lookout for the rest of the night. I’ve a hunch Stern’s people will try almost anything right now, short of risking full-scale battle.”

Hense shook his head dazedly. Jackson looked up from the book.

“It’s all right, lieutenant,” he said. “Go ahead. And you might take this man’s word on the heavy guard. If we’ve got what I think we’ve got, and if Stern knows it, he might even risk a battle.”

Hense suddenly realized he was no longer under any kind of restraint.

And, he realized, this had been no dream.

He had actually been ordered around like some recruit. And that by some no-good, naked native kid.

His guard had been pushed around. Unauthorized orders had been given to them.

And they’d obeyed those orders—without question.

In fact, the whole compound had been virtually taken over.

And all by this same kid.

And the commissioner said it was all right?

Hense turned away. He’d——

He took a step, then reconsidered. He had a better idea.

“This place,” he said savagely, “has just plain gone to hell!” He stalked through the door.

The commissioner’s amused voice followed him.

“Not yet,” it said, “but it very possibly might, lieutenant. Don’t forget to double your guard.”

As the door closed, Jackson looked at Don, a smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Afraid you were just a little rough on him,” he said. “He’ll get over it, but it’s pretty unsettling, you know.” He shrugged.

“But you haven’t introduced yourself. Special Corps?”

Don looked at him blankly, then shook his head.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that is,” he admitted.

Jackson examined him carefully. “Hm-m-m,” he said slowly. “Interesting! Tell me, how long have you been ordering people around like this?”

Don spread his hands. “Why, I don’t really know,” he said. “You see, I——”

Jackson held up a hand, smiling. “Never mind. Do you always go around … ah … dressed like that?”

Don glanced down, then grinned. “I’m sorry, sir, but I was in something of a dither a while ago. Truth is, I forgot to dress after I——”

“Wait a minute.” Again, Jackson held up a hand. “Start at the beginning. While you’re giving me the story, I’ll have some clothes brought in for you.” He touched a button on his desk, then leaned back.

“All right,” he said, “let’s have it. First, of course, who are you?”

While Don was talking, an impassive aide brought an outfit for him. He slipped into the clothing as he finished his account.

“So,” he concluded, “all we need to do now is to force a conclave and it’s all over. From what Gorham told me, I’m pretty sure I can tear Stern apart myself.” His eyes clouded.

“Of course, there’s Mr. Masterson. I guess they’ve got him in one of the torture cells.”

Jackson waved a hand. “There’s no problem about Masterson. We’ll have him over here by morning.

“And I have an idea your father is all right. From what you tell me, I’d say he used one of the evasion tricks they teach Guard pilots. Then, he probably made a safe landing.” He leaned forward and snapped down the key on his intercom.

“Emergency operation schedule, Lorenz,” he said, “as of now. Have the department heads report here immediately. Have Communications get out an immediate message to Deloran Base. I want at least three squadrons, and I want ‘em now. Tell ‘em to burn the grass.” He lifted the switch and turned to Don.

“I’m not going to take any chances from here on,” he remarked. “We’ll send a squadron of fighters along with you to pick up young Waern and the clan leaders. That way, they’ll have protection.” He frowned.

“Now, that leaves us with only one more problem.”

Don looked up questioningly and the commissioner nodded.

“We’ll have to find someone to represent the Waernu before the conclave. And he’ll have to be acceptable to the Waernu.”

“That’s simple. They’ve already picked me.”

“Won’t work now. You can bring them before the clans, of course. But they’d be in a hole if you got snapped out on civil charges right in the middle of the conclave.”

“Civil charges?”

“That’s right. Little matter of that body out in the flier. You know, and I know, the story on that. It’s clearly line of duty. But up to the decision of the conclave, you’re vulnerable. Remember, Stern can claim Gorham as a police agent. So, you were resisting arrest. Catch?”

“Ow!” Don looked down at the floor. Then he shrugged.

“But Stern has no way of knowing what happened to Gorham.”

“Admitted.” Jackson smiled. “But he might guess. You’d have to be consulting with his people for some time before the conclave, you know. And he’d have time to figure things out. Here you are. Here’s the clan book. But where’s Gorham? And Gorham went up to find that book. Adds up, you see.”

“You mean I’ve got to stay under cover from now on?”

“Not necessarily. The clan warden doesn’t have to be identified ahead of time. Usually, it’s just an honorary job, any way. But this time, he might really have to perform his traditional duty.” He looked at Don seriously.

“Remember the private conversation between claimant and prime minister? About that time, the warden is the only protection the claimant has.

“And this is one time a claimant may really need protection.”

Daniel Stern slapped a folder down on his desk and got to his feet. He circled the large office, then stopped, looking down at Gorham’s vacant desk.

What had happened to Gorham? Papers were stacked all over his own desk. And they should be here. Most of them had been old Jake’s concern. He hadn’t realized how much detail the old man had controlled.

But where was Gorham? He’d come in from Riandar. Reports showed that much. Then, his flier had suddenly dashed over and landed on the Federation pad. They’d tried to stop him, but——

Something must have gone wrong up there at Riandar. Something must have made Gorham decide to come back and make a separate deal of his own. But why? There was that pile of clothes in the Waern house. Had he——?

Maybe that blast had killed Gorham and destroyed his evidence.

He looked around hopefully. It was possible. No effort had been made to restrain him. He still controlled the Ministry. No effort had been made to limit his authority.

He picked up a sheet of paper. Oh, no? They didn’t want to limit him—they wanted everything. Here was this demand for a conclave.

And with that Waern kid running around loose, that was bad.

And he had no one to talk to! Of all the people in this palace, not a single one could serve as confidant. With Gorham gone——

He shuffled through the papers. Yes, here was the formal demand for a conclave. He looked at it unhappily.

And here was the transcript of the Waern claim. It looked too good.

He tossed the papers back to the desk. It was good, and he knew it. He’d seen the originals in the heraldric files. They were destroyed, of course. But here was a photo of that clan book!

And worse, here was the notice from the Resident Commissioner that the claimant had requested protective intervention from the Galactic Federation. That was really bad. He could remember his interview with the commissioner on that.

Jackson had always been something of a problem. He was a stubborn man. But up to now, he’d always backed down—if enough pressure was put on him. This time? Hah!

He’d come in, bringing that rancher—that Kent Michaels. Stern frowned.

Hadn’t old Jake said that guy had been shot down—was dead?

He hadn’t looked very dead. As councilor of the Waern clan, Michaels was supposed to be calling on Jackson for backing. Who, Stern wondered, was backing who? He recalled the interview.

They’d come in. And he’d started to establish dominance over Jackson.

Then that Michaels had butted in. He was worse than old Jake. What with one thing and another, he’d backed Stern into every corner in the office.

It had ended very simply.

Jackson had simply declared that there would be a conclave.

The Stellar Guard detachment would be in attendance. No irregularities would be tolerated.

And he’d even named the day—today. Then the two of them had walked out.

Stern twisted his chair around viciously and sat down. He punched at a button on his desk.

An aide came through the door. That was another thing. After that fiasco at the Michaels ranch, he’d had to get a new aide. He motioned the man forward impatiently.

“You have made final arrangements for the conclave?”

“Yes, sir. The Heraldric Branch has everything set up. The clans have already gathered in the Throne Room. The private conversation will be held in the Blue Palace. After the conversation, you will escort the claimant across the south lawn, to the Throne Room.” The aide half turned.

“I can get you the plan and diagrams, sir.”

Stern waved a hand. “Never mind. I’ve seen them.” He paused.

“Now, has my space yacht been positioned back of the Blue Palace? Is it properly serviced?”

The aide paused. “Yes, sir.” He looked curious, but said no more.

Stern examined him haughtily. “Very well,” he said. “You will remember my instructions. Discuss the yacht with no one. You may go.”

He watched as the door closed, then got out of his chair again. It was time for the conversation. He glanced about the office, then went out into the private garden.

As he walked, he looked at the side paths among the trees, which seemed to beckon to ever more enticing vistas beyond. There were the miniature landscapes, with their mountains and lakes. There were the small cottages, where one could sit and enjoy a cooling drink. He smiled wryly and walked across a miniature bridge.

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