He turned to Genro Kir, who was looking with horrified fascination at the still growing cloud in the screen.
“It’s unfortunate. We’ll try to get your other partner alive.”
“You destroyed him!” Kir looked a little sick.
“No. We didn’t destroy him. He should have known better than to fire into a tractor. I’ll have to admit, I did slip a little. I assumed he was the usual type of drone. I didn’t recognize the full extent of his aberration.”
Lanko got out of his chair, and crossed the room, to confront the prisoner.
“Look, Kir. I don’t know whether your other partner’s like that one or not But I think it’s about time you helped a little. If you had given us clues to Sira Nal’s personality and probable location, we might have been able to take precautions. He might be with us now. Or, do you enjoy seeing your friends turn themselves into flaming clouds of smoke?”
“You mean I . . . I’m responsible . . . for that?”
“Partially. You helped them. You refused any assistance in their capture. And you knew they were going to be captured, one way or another.”
Kir directed a horrified look at the screen.
“What can I do?”
“Get in contact with Koree Buron. Tell him what happened here. Tell him, too, that we’re looking for him, and that there is a Sector Guardsman due to join us within a few hours. Explain to him that there will be direction-finders on him very soon, and that any effort he may make to use his body shield, his weapons, or even his thought-radiations, will be noted, and will lead to him.
“Once you establish contact, we will ride in, if you wish. And we can assure him that he’ll be either hunted down promptly, or he will have to assume and accept the role of a native—and a very inconspicuous, uninfluential native, at that.
“Tell him that he is free to come to us and surrender at any time within the next twenty hours, planetary. After that, he will be taken by the most expedient means. After the surrender deadline, you can assure him that his life will be of less importance to us, and to the Sector Guardsman, than that of the most humble native.
“Here’s your mental amplifier, if you need it.”
Genro Kir looked at the proffered circlet, then slowly extended a hand. He took the device, turned it around in his hands for a few moments, then put it on.
Suddenly, his face set in decision, and he sat quietly for a while, grim faced. At last, he looked up.
“I got him. He argued a little, but he had a poor argument, and he knew it. He’ll be here within an hour, screens down.”
THE END
Liewen Konar smiled wryly as he put a battered object on the bench. “Well, here’s another piece recovered. Not worth much, I’d say, but here it is.”
Obviously, it had once been a precisely fabricated piece of equipment. But its identity was almost lost. A hole was torn in the side of the metal box. Knobs were broken away from their shafts. The engraved legends were scored and worn to illegibility, and the meter was merely a black void in the panel. Whatever had been mounted at the top had been broken away, to leave ragged shards. Inside the gaping hole in the case, tiny, blackened components hung at odd angles.
Klion Meinora looked at the wreckage and shook his head.
“I know it’s supposed to be what’s left of a medium range communicator,” he said, “but I’d never believe it.” He poked a finger inside the hole in the case, pushing a few components aside. Beyond them, a corroded wheel hung loosely in what had once been precision bearings.
“Where’s the power unit?”
Konar shook his head. “No trace. Not much left of the viewsphere, either.”
“Well.” Meinora shook his head resignedly. “It’s salvage. But we got it back.” He stood back to look at the communicator. “Someone’s been keeping the outside clean, I see.”
Konar nodded. “It was a religious relic,” he said. “Found it in an abbey.” He reached into the bag he had placed on the floor.
“And here’s a mental amplifier-communicator, personnel, heavy duty. Slightly used and somewhat out of adjustment, but complete and repairable.” He withdrew a golden circlet, held it up for a moment, and carefully laid it on the bench beside the wrecked communicator. Its metal was dented, but untarnished.
“Don’t want to get rough with it,” he explained. “Something might be loose inside.”
He reached again into the bag. “And a body shield, protector type, model GS/NO-10C. Again, somewhat used, but repairable. Even has its nomenclature label.”
“Good enough.” Meinora held a hand out and accepted the heavy belt. He turned it about in his hands, examining the workmanship. Finally, he looked closely at the long, narrow case mounted on the leather.
“See they counted this unit fairly well. Must have been using it.”
“Yes, sir. It’s operative. The Earl wore it all the time. Guess he kept up his reputation as a fighter that way. Be pretty hard to nick anyone with a sword if he had one of these running. And almost any clumsy leatherhead could slash the other guy up if he didn’t have to worry about self-protection.”
“I know.” Meinora nodded quickly. “Seen it done. Anything more turned up?”
“One more thing. This hand weapon came from the same abbey I got the communicator from. I’d say it was pretty hopeless, too.” Konar picked a flame-scarred frame from his bag, then reached in again, to scoop up a few odd bits of metal.
“It was in pieces when we picked it up,” he explained. “They kept it clean, but they couldn’t get the flame pits out and reassembly was a little beyond them.”
“Beyond us too, by now.” Meinora looked curiously at the object. “Looks as though a couple of the boys shot it out.”
“Guess they did, sir. Not once, but several times.” Konar shrugged. “Malendes tells me he picked up several like this.” He cocked his head to one side.
“Say, chief, how many of these things were kicking around on this unlucky planet?”
Meinora grimaced. “As far as we can determine, there were ninety-two operative sets originally issued. Each of the original native operatives was equipped with a mentacom and a body shield. Each of the eight operating teams had a communicator and three hand weapons, and the headquarters group had a flier, three communicators, a field detector set, and six hand weapons. Makes quite an equipment list.”
“Any tools or maintenance equipment?”
Meinora shook his head. “Just operator manuals. And those will have deteriorated long ago. An inspection team was supposed to visit once a cycle for about fifty cycles, then once each five cycles after that. They would have taken care of maintenance. This operation was set up quite a while ago, you know. Operatives get a lot more training now—and we don’t use so many of them.”
“So, something went wrong.” Konar looked at the equipment on the bench. “How?” he asked. “How could it have happened?”
“Oh, we’ve got the sequence of events pretty well figured out by now.” Meinora got to his feet. “Of course, it’s a virtually impossible situation—something no one would believe could happen. But it did.” He looked thoughtfully at the ruined communicator.
“You know the history of the original operation on this planet?”
“Yes, sir. I looked it over. Planet was checked out by Exploration. They found a couple of civilizations in stasis and another that was about to go that way. Left alone, the natives’d have reverted to a primitive hunter stage—if they didn’t go clear back to the caves. And when they did come up again, they’d have been savage terrors.”
“Right. So a corps of native operatives was set up by Philosophical, to upset the stasis and hold a core of knowledge till the barbaric period following the collapse of one of the old empires was over. One civilization on one continent was chosen, because it was felt that its impact on the rest of the planet would be adequate to insure progress, and that any more extensive operation would tend to mold the planetary culture.”
Konar
nodded. “The old, standard procedure. It usually worked better than this, though. What happened this time?”
“The Merokian Confederation happened.”
“But their penetration was nowhere near here.”
“No, it wasn’t. But they did attack Sector Nine. And they did destroy the headquarters. You remember that?”
“Yes, sir. I read about it in school. We lost a lot of people on that one.” Konar frowned. “Long before my time in the Corps, of course, but I studied up on it. They used some sort of screen that scrambled the detectors, didn’t they?”
“Something like that. Might have been coupled with someone’s inattention, too. But that’s unimportant now. The important thing is that the sector records were destroyed during the attack.”
“Sure. But how about the permanent files that were forwarded to Aldebaran depository?”
Meinora smiled grimly. “Something else that couldn’t happen. We’re still looking for traces of that courier ship. I suppose they ran afoul of a Merokian task force, but there’s nothing to go on. They just disappeared.” He picked up the mental communicator, examining the signs of aging.
“One by one,” he continued, “the case files and property records of Sector Nine are being reconstructed. Every guardsman even remotely associated with the Sector before the attack is being interviewed, and a lot of them are working on the reconstruction. It’s been a long job, but we’re nearly done now. This is one of the last planets to be located and rechecked, and it’s been over a period since the last visit they’ve had from any of our teams. On this planet, that’s some fifty-odd generations. Evidently the original operatives didn’t demolish their equipment, and fifty some generations of descendants have messed things up pretty thoroughly.”
Konar looked at the bench. Besides the equipment he had just brought in, there were other items, all in varying stages of disrepair and ruin.
“Yes, sir,” he agreed. “If this is a sample, and if the social conditions I’ve seen since I joined the team are typical, they have. Now what?”
“We’ve been picking up equipment. Piece by piece, we’ve been accounting for every one of those items issued. Some of ’em were lost. Some of ’em probably wore out and were discarded, or were burned—like this, only more so.” Meinora pointed at the wrecked communicator.
“Local legends tell us about violent explosions, so we know a few actually discharged. And we’ve tracked down the place where the flier cracked up and bit out a hole the size of a barony. Those items are gone without trace.” He sighed.
“That introduces an uncertainty factor, of course, but the equipment in the hands of natives, and the stuff just lying around in deserted areas has to be tracked down. This planet will develop a technology some day, and we don’t want anything about to raise questions and doubts when it does. The folklore running around now is bad enough. When we get the equipment back, we’ve got to clean up the social mess left by the descendants of those original operatives.”
“Nice job.”
“Very nice. We’ll be busy for a long time.” Meinora picked up a small tape reel. “Just got this,” he explained. “That’s why I was waiting for you here. It’s an account of a mentacom and shield that got away. Probably stolen about twenty years ago, planetary. We’re assigned to track it down and pick it up.”
He turned to speak to a technician, who was working at another bench.
“You can have this stuff now. Bring in some more pretty soon.”
Flor, the beater, was bone weary. The shadows were lengthening, hiding the details in the thickets, and all the hot day, he had been thrusting his way through thicket after thicket, in obedience to the instructions of the foresters. He had struck trees with his short club and had grunted and squealed, to startle the khada into flight. A few of the ugly beasts had come out, charging into the open, to be run down and speared by the nobles.
And Flor had tired of this hunt, as he had tired of many other hunts in the past. Hunting the savage khada, he thought resentfully, might be an amusing sport for the nobles. But to a serf, it was hard, lung-bursting work at best. At worst, it meant agonizing death beneath trampling hoofs and rending teeth.
To be sure, there would be meat at the hunting lodge tonight, in plenty, and after the hunt dinner, he and the other serfs might take bits of the flesh home to their families. But that would be after the chores in the scullery were over. It would be many hours before Flor would be able to stumble homeward.
He relaxed, to enjoy the short respite he had gained by evading the forester. Sitting with his back to a small tree, he closed his eyes and folded his thick arms over his head. Of course, he would soon be found, and he would have to go back to the hunt. But this forester was a dull, soft fellow. He could be made to believe Flor’s excuse that he had become lost for a time, and had been searching the woods for the other beaters.
The underbrush rustled and Flor heard the sound of disturbed leaves and heavy footfalls. A hunting charger was approaching, bearing one of the hunters. Quickly, Flor rose to his feet, sidling farther back into the thicket. Possibly, he might remain unseen. He peered out through the leaves.
The mounted man was old and evidently tired from the long day’s hunt. He swayed a little in his saddle, then recovered and looked about him, fumbling at his side for his horn. His mount raised its head and beat a forefoot against the ground. The heavy foot made a deep, thumping noise and leaves rustled and rose in a small cloud.
Flor sighed and started forward reluctantly. It was the Earl, himself. It might be possible to hide from another, but Flor knew better than to try to conceal his presence from the old nobleman. The Earl could detect any person in his vicinity, merely by their thoughts, as Flor well knew from past experience. He also knew how severe the punishment would be if he failed to present himself immediately. He pushed a branch aside with a loud rustle.
Startled by the noise, a husa, which had been hiding beneath a nearby bush, raced into the open. The small animal dashed madly toward the Earl, slid wildly almost under the charger’s feet, and put on a fresh burst of speed, to disappear into the underbrush. The huge beast flinched away, then reared wildly, dashing his rider’s head against a tree limb.
The elderly man slipped in his saddle, reached shakily for his belt, missed, and lost his seat, to crash heavily to the ground.
Flor rushed from his thicket. With the shock of the fall, the Earl’s coronet had become dislodged from his head and lay a short distance from the inert form. Flor picked it up, turning it in his hands and looking at it.
Curiously, he examined the golden circlet, noting the tiny bosses inset in the band. Many times, he had watched from a dark corner at the hunting lodge, neglecting his scullery duties, while the Earl showed the powers of this coronet to his elder son. Sometimes, he had been caught by the very powers the circlet gave to the old nobleman, and he winced as he remembered the strong arm of the kitchen master, and the skill with which he wielded a strap. But on other occasions, the Earl had been so engrossed in explaining the device as to neglect the presence of the eavesdropper.
He had told of the ability given him to read the thoughts of others, and even to strongly influence their actions. And Flor had gone back to his labors, to dream of what he would do if he, rather than the Earl, were the possessor of the powerful talisman.
And now, he had it in his hands.
A daring idea occurred to him, and he looked around furtively. He was alone with the Earl. The old man was breathing stertorously, his mouth wide open. His face was darkening, and the heavy jowls were becoming purple. Obviously, he was capable of little violence.
In sudden decision, Flor knelt beside the body. His hand, holding the short club above the Earl’s throat, trembled uncontrollably. He wanted to act—had to act now—but his fear made him nauseated and weak. For a moment, his head seemed to expand and to lighten as he realized the enormity of his intent. This was one of the great nobles of the land, not some mere animal.
&nb
sp; The heavily lidded eyes beneath him fluttered, started to open.
With a sob of effort, Flor dashed his club downward, as though striking a husa. The Earl shivered convulsively, choked raspingly, and was suddenly limp and still. The labored breathing stopped and his eyes opened reluctantly, to fix Flor with a blank stare.
The serf leaped back, then hovered over the body, club poised to strike again. But the old man was really dead. Flor shook his head. Men, he thought in sudden contempt, died easily. It was not so with the husa, or the khada, who struggled madly for life, often attacking their killer and wounding him during their last efforts.
Flor consigned this bit of philosophy to his memory for future use and set to work removing the heavy belt worn by the Earl. This, he knew, was another potent talisman, which could guard its wearer from physical harm when its bosses were pushed.
The murderer smiled sardonically. It was well for him that the old nobleman had failed to press those bosses, otherwise this opportunity probably would never have been presented. He stood up, holding the belt in his hand. Such a thing as this, he told himself, could make him a great man.
He examined the belt, noting the long metal case, with its engraving and its bosses. At last, he grunted and fastened it about his own waist. He pressed the bosses, then threw himself against a tree.
Something slowed his fall, and he seemed to be falling on a soft mat. He caught his balance and rested against the tree, nodding in satisfaction. Later, he could experiment further, but now he had other things to do.
He examined the coronet again, remembering that there was something about its bosses, too. He looked closely at them, then pressed. One boss slid a little under his finger and he felt a faint, unfamiliar sense of awareness.
He put the coronet on his head and shuddered a little as the awareness increased to an almost painful intensity. The forest was somehow more clear to him than it had ever been. He seemed to understand many things which he had heard or experienced, but which had been vague before. And memory crowded upon him. He stood still, looking around.
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