“Relax, captain,” ordered A-Riman. “Why didn’t you answer my screen?”
The captain was still at attention. “The previous commander wanted personal contact, sir,” he said, then, as the order to relax penetrated, he quickly took a more comfortable pose.
“Open the door again, then take a chair. I think we’re going to have company,” smiled his superior.
A voice drifted through the open door. “Oh, I suppose he wants someone to check the guards on that suspect planet. As though we haven’t—” The voice trailed off, as the speaker realized the group commander’s door was open. Two highly embarrassed officers entered, announced themselves, stood at attention, and waited for the thunders of wrath to descend about their ears.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” ordered A-Riman mildly. “We’ll have more company in a minute.”
Three more officers filed into the room, took two paces, saluted, and announced themselves. A-Riman waved a hand. “Relax, gentlemen,” he told them. He turned to Captain Poltar. “Are there any more officers present?” he inquired.
Poltar glanced at the others present in the room, then shook his head. “No, sir. The rest are off the base, checking or investigating.”
“Good.” A-Riman nodded. “When they come in, have them report to me one at a time.” He turned to face the entire group. “Gentlemen,” he began, “this is my first, and very probably my last, staff meeting.” He raised a hand. “No, I don’t mean it that way. I plan to be here for a good many cycles, but I’m going to see to it that the ‘conference’ button gets good and corroded.” He turned to Captain Poltar again. “What were you doing when I buzzed you?”
“Working out the deci-cyclic report, sir.”
“It took you over a minute to get here,” stated the commander.
“Yes, sir.”
“It’ll take you ten or fifteen minutes to get back on your train of thought and start over where you left off?”
“About that, sir.”
“So, you will lose at least a quarter of an hour from your work, plus the time we take in this discussion. How long is that?”
“I expect to lose about an hour and a half, sir.”
A-Riman glanced about the group. “Anyone here think he’ll lose any less than that?” There was silence.
“So,” decided the commander, “I push a few buttons and lose nine manhours of work—more than one day for an officer.” He frowned at the row of buttons on his desk. “Mr. Kelnar, you’re engineering, I believer Have these things rewired right away so that when I call someone I am cut into his viewscreen. There’ll be no more of this.”
An older man, one of the last to report, rose to his feet. “I’m on my way, sir,” he announced, and turned to go out of the door.
“Just a minute,” ordered A-Riman. “You were in the Combat Arm once. How did you happen to transfer out?”
“Crash landed in a repair ship on a primitive planet, sir. When they got me patched up, a Board decided I was unfit for further combat duty.”
“Why didn’t you retire?”
“I like it here.”
A-Riman waved a dismissal. The senior technician saluted, swung through the door, and was gone. The group commander gazed after him thoughtfully, then returned his attention to the five remaining officers.
“Maybe, gentlemen, we’re not wasting so much time, at that,” he remarked, softly. “Maybe I’d better go into my philosophy of operation. I just came from the Combat Arm, gentlemen. Xo one forced me into this job—I came here because I was something like Mr. Kelnar. I like it here. From now on, we’re going to work. There’ll be very little time for two-stepping, reporting, and so on. We’ve got a job to do, and we’re going to concentrate on it. When I call one of you, I expect an immediate answer by viewscreen, or I expect someone in your office to locale you within a very short time. Then, you will call me. If you have any problems, I expect a prompt call. I’ll probably be out of my office. I may be at the other end of the sector, but there’ll be someone here that’ll know how to get in touch with me.
He picked up the tiny recordings of the pickup data. “We have five pickups on Drones who have violated quarantine of Planet Five, Sun Gorgon Three, number four five seven six, Sector Ten. They are still at large and presumably still on the planet. What’s wrong?”
“We have guards staked out all around the Sun’s system, waiting for them to move, sir. So far, they haven’t attempted to leave.” Captain Poltar looked a little surprised.
“You’re sure they are on the planet?”
“Yes, sir, definitely. We tracked them in shortly after they made planetfall. Since then, not a dust mote could’ve gotten out. Our people are keeping constant watch on their actions.”
“What’s your disposition?”
“It’s in the report, sir,” said another officer. “We have ten two-man scouts englobing the planet, at dose range, with detectors full out. If they even move, we know it.”
“That’s twenty men on full-time duty, just watching a mouse hole,” commented A-Riman. “Why not simply send in five of the scouts, hunt up your people on the planet, and bring them back here?”
Captain Pol tar looked shocked. “Regulations, sir,” he exclaimed. “Which regulations?”
“Why, I believe it’s SGR 344-53-4, sir. I’ll have it checked if you wish.”
“Don’t bother.” A-Riman smiled at him wryly. “I checked. It says, ‘Excepting in cases of extreme emergency, no Guard Unit will make planetfall on any primitive world without prior clearance from higher authority.’ Have you checked with the sector chief for permission to make planetfall?”
“I haven’t, sir. Commander Redendale said ‘Higher Authority’ in this case meant the council, and he wasn’t about to contact the council to cover my people’s incompetence. He said they should certainly be able to do a simple thing like bringing the quarry into the open.”
The commander grinned. “He told you, of course, how that was to be done?”
“No, sir.”
“And they sent that guy to Combat,” mused A-Riman silently, shaking his head. He punched a sequence of buttons on his desk.
The viewscreen lit up, showing a blue haze, then cleared as an alert face appeared, and a voice said crisply, “Admiral’s office, Orderly here.”
“CAC group commander here,” he was told. “Let me talk to the admiral.”
“Yes, sir.” The orderly reached forward and his image was abruptly blanked out. A few seconds later, Sector Chief Dal-Kun’s heavy face appeared. “Yes, commander, what is it?”
“Sir, I would like permission to land ten of my people on a primitive planet.”
“Why?”
“I have live pickup orders, sir. The subjects have been located, and I’d like to land agents to bring them in.”
“When were they located?”
“Half a cycle ago, sir.”
The sector commander’s face whitened slightly, then its normal silvery gray became suffused with a pale bluish tint. “Why,” he demanded angrily, “wasn’t I contacted for this permission half a cycle ago?”
“I don’t know of my own knowledge, admiral,” replied A-Riman softly.
“Find out, commander. Call me back with the answer within an hour.” The sector chief leaned forward. “Go in and get those Drones—now. I want a report on their apprehension within ten days.” The screen became blank.
A-Riman looked up. “Gentlemen, you heard the conversation, so now you know where ‘Higher Authority’ may be found. The admiral said ten days. I know that doesn’t leave much time to comb an entire planet and locate five men,” he paused, looking about the group, “but I’m going to make it stiffen If our people are any good at all, they’ll have kept some track of our subjects. I want to see those Drones tomorrow, right after lunch—alive.”
The five officers looked at each other. Then, they looked at their new group commander. “Tomorrow, sir?” said one, “Right after lunch?”
A-Riman nodde
d. “Alive,” he emphasized. “I don’t care how you do it. If you wish, and if ten men can, you may turn the planet inside out, but bring them in. We’ll pick up the pieces and dean up the mess later. Now, let’s get at it. You go to work while I explain to the admiral why this wasn’t reported to him long ago.” He touched the buttons again. “This meeting’s adjourned.”
Master Search Technician Kembar looked sourly at the communicator.
“Half a cycle, I’m hanging around this planet, watching a bunch of monkeys swagger around. They won’t let me touch ’em. I can’t just go in, fiddle around for a couple of days, then pick them up. No—I sit here, rigging gadgets to let me watch ’em.” He turned to his companion, who merely grinned.
“Go ahead. Grin, you prehistoric Dawn-man. It ain’t funny.”
Scout Pilot First Class Dayne stretched his long arms. “So, now they tell you to go in. What’s wrong with that?”
Kembar wagged his head. “Half a cycle, that’s what’s wrong. Then, they tell me to bring ’em in for lunch tomorrow.” He glanced over the pilot’s shoulder at the clock. “Well, set her down just outside of the city, and we’ll get on with it. Tell the rest of the section to meet us in that park just outside of town.”
Dayne nodded and turned to his controls. “They’ve got the old style Mohrkan body shields, haven’t they?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Yeah,” replied Kembar. He opened a locker, pulling out equipment and clothing. “Set up your hideaway projector now.”
The Guest House of the Three Kings wasn’t a very elaborate place, nor was it in the best section of Besiro. It had become the haunt of some of the capital’s Elegants due to some chance whim of one of the leaders of fashion, and an astute proprietor had held this favor by quickly hiring excellent help, and stocking the best wines, while still retaining the casual atmosphere of a small, slightly down-at-the-heels public drinking place.
In the guest room, long wooden benches lined the walls. Before these were the scrubbed wooden tables. The center of the room was normally kept clear, so that the waiters could move more quickly to their customers. Sometimes, the customers used this open area for swordplay, but this was discouraged. Master Korno didn’t like bloodstains marring the scrubbed whiteness of his floors.
Outside the Guest Room, in the large hall, Manir Kal met his friends. Bale was teasing one of the waitresses, while Kem-dor looked on with mild amusement.
“Where’s Bintar?” queried Kal.
Kem-dor gestured. “Kitchen,” he said. “He wanted the roast done just so.”
Bale gave the waitress a slight shove. “I’m getting tired of this place,” he remarked. “Getting to be a routine. How about finding something else?”
Kal shook his head. “Have to wait a while,” he explained. “Malon says they’re still watching. Better not move till they give up.” He frowned a little, looking at the bare hallway.
Kem-dor nodded. “I suppose you’re right,” he agreed, “but there must be something better than these silly gambling games. I’m just turning into a money-making machine, and it’s beginning to bore me.”
“Try their business houses,” suggested Bale. “Might be some interest there.”
Kem-dor snorted. “Tried that long ago,” he complained. “At first, their elementary tricks were amusing, but—” He waved a jeweled hand.
“I know what you mean,” said Kal. “The bravos don’t put up much of a fight, either.” He started for a door. “Well, let’s go in and get a drink, anyway.”
As he entered the Guest Room, Manir Kal started for the usual table over in the far corner. There was a large man sitting on the bench. Kal looked him over casually. He was a tall, lean individual—well enough dressed, but not in the precise height of style. Probably some rustic land-owner in for the carnival, decided Kal. He walked over.
“Sorry, fellow,” he remarked. “You’re in.my place.”
The man looked up, but made no effort to move. “Plenty more tables,” he remarked. “I’ve been here for quite a while.” He gestured at the table next to his. “Here, try this spot.”
Kal smiled inwardly. Perhaps this one would provide some sport. “Possibly you didn’t understand me,” he said evenly. “You are sitting in the place I am accustomed to occupy. I’ll thank you to move immediately.”
The other picked up his glass and took a casual drink. “As I said,” he remarked, setting the glass down again, “I’ve been here quite a while. I like it here.” He looked Manir Kal over carefully. “Surely, you can get used to another table.”
Someone at another table laughed.
Manir Kal’s face flushed. He swept a hand past his belt, then picked up the stranger’s glass and dashed it at the man’s face.
The rustic vaulted over the table so rapidly he seemed to float. A hard fist struck Manir Kal in the nose, then, as he staggered back, a backhanded cuff sent him reeling against a table. For an instant, rage flooded through him. He snatched his sword out.
“I’ll cut you to ribbons for this,” he snarled.
The stranger had a sword, too; “Come and try,” he invited.
Korno interposed his fat body between the two disputants. “Now, gentlemen,” he protested, “there’s a—”
Impatiently, Kal poked him with his sword. “Out of the way, fool,” he growled, “before we use your body for a fencing mat.”
With a shriek, Korno leaped out of the center of the room, then stood and rubbed his injured posterior as he watched the fight.
The blades slithered against each other as the duelists felt each other out, then Kal tried a quick thrust. It was parried, and the riposte nearly threw Kal out of balance. He felt a surge of enthusiasm. At least, this one could fight. He wove a bewildering net of thrusts and counterthrusts, then moved in with his favorite trick, a disarm he had learned long ago.
Somehow, it didn’t work. He found his blade borne down to the floor.
Quickly, he swung it up again, closing in to avoid a thrust.
“Have to do better than that,” laughed the stranger in Kal’s native language. “Much better.”
Manir Kal started to answer, then the significance of the sudden language change struck him. “You’re—”
With an easy shove, the stranger pushed Kal back, then, beating his blade aside, pierced the swordsman’s shoulder with a straight thrust.
“That’s right,” he admitted, “I am.”
“Hey,” protested someone. “The Old Man said to bring ’em in alive.”
“I know,” replied Kal’s assailant, sheathing his sword, “but he didn’t say anything about cuts and bruises.” For a moment, Manir Kal stood, looking at this man who had so easily brushed aside his swordsmanship, then a haze closed in on him and he slipped to, the floor. His three companions started for the door, but were met by several grim looking individuals with small objects in their hands—familiar objects.
“Screens down,” ordered one of these. As the three hesitated in bewilderment, he added, “Don’t tempt us, children.”
The large duelist hoisted Manir Kal to his shoulder and started for the door.
“All right, fellows,” he said, “let’s go.” Then, he caught sight of Korno. “Oh, yes,” he remarked. “We’re taking this gran to a doctor. His friends are going along with us.”
A-Riman sat back in his chair. For the moment, his work was done and nothing remained outside of purely routine matters, which he had no intention of considering. He yawned, then glanced at his watch. It was just about time for someone to come up with a report on those five Drones. He smiled to himself.
“Wonder what action they’ve taken so far?” he asked himself. He leaned forward and touched a button. An enlisted man’s face showed in the screen for an instant, then blanked out, and Captain Pol tar appeared.
“Yes, sir.”
“How about those five pickups?” The captain glanced down at his desk. “They’re being interrogated right now, sir,” he explained. “We planned to bring th
em to you after lunch as you ordered.”
A-Riman raised his eyebrows. “Who brought them in, and when?”
“Lieutenant Norkal’s patrol was on duty, sir. Sergeant Kembar took his section in and made the pickup. He came in early this morning.”
“Very good,” nodded the commander. “I like operations that come off ahead of schedule.” He glanced at his. watch again. “I think I can wait a little before lunch. Have the sergeant bring them here.” He shut off the screen and sat back, waiting.
The door light flashed, and as A-Riman touched the button, Sergeant Kembar walked in and saluted. He was in a fresh uniform, his insignia gleaming like a new rainbow against the blackness of his clothing. He stepped to the side of the door and drew his sidearm.
“Send ’em in, corporal,” he instructed.
Five slightly disheveled individuals filed in, followed by a pair of neatly uniformed guards, who quickly herded them into a line facing the group commander.
A-Riman looked over the tableau, then laughed. “Fine, useful bunch of citizens,” he remarked amusedly. “We have here a real credit to the Galactic Civilization.”
Sergeant Kembar looked over the prisoners. “Things like these will happen, sir,” he commented expressionlessly.
The group commander’s amusement evaporated. “Unfortunately, sergeant,” he replied, “they do.” He pointed at Manir Kal, who stood facing him defiantly. The former swordsman of Besiro had a fresh bandage on his shoulder. His arm was carried in a sling, but he attempted to carry himself with something of his former swagger.
“What’s this one good for?”
Sergeant Kembar smiled slightly.
“It picks fights,” he stated.
“Has it found anyone it can lick yet?”
The sergeant’s smile broadened. “With the help of a body shield, it can conquer almost any primitive swordsman,” he answered. “Of course, its knowledge of fighting arts is limited, but it knows which end of the sword is sharp—now.” The sergeant glanced pointedly at the bandage.
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