The moneylender lifted his tankard and sipped. The peddler had certainly spread chaos. Markorik had escaped the earldom by the aid of the magic, stick he carried. And the emperor’s great ships had come to Dorolik. Of course, the earl’s people in the castle had put up such defense as they were able. But once again, the hopelessness of defense against the flying ships of the emperor had been demonstrated. Dorolik had collapsed in ruins and then its earl had met the fate of a heretic.
Laduro shook his head. How, he wondered, could the Following of Duern do better? All he and his people had been able to do, he remembered, had been to remove their believers from the doomed earldom. And that had been an accomplishment in itself.
Now, the little spark struck at Dorolik had become a raging fire. The inquisition was flaming across the land and no one seemed to be safe from accusation. And none were ever declared blameless. No rank, no influence, no record of piety served as protection.
The inquisitors struck out at all alike. Rich, poor, noble, serf. No one was safe from accusation and trial. Laduro shook his head. At least, it made little difference whether one was of the Following or not. The believers were at least as safe as anyone. Almost, it would seem, safer. There had been rumors—He shook his head. That was idle conjecture.
He turned his head, examining the room. It was not too dissimilar from the familiar room in Dorolik, he thought. There were the same tables, the same waitresses—even the same customers. Oh, of course, the faces were different, but—
The door opened and a breath of cold air came in. Laduro looked searchingly at the peddler who sidled through the door, closed it quickly, and eyed the roomful of people cautiously. The man looked familiar.
The peddler’s gaze traveled about the room, then centered on the moneylender. The man approached a waitress, spoke apologetically, then came toward the moneylender’s table.
“Do you mind, Good Friend, if I sit with you for a time? I am weary from traveling too long on the side of the road.”
Laduro examined the man carefully. “I, too, have been a traveler,” he admitted, “stumbling over the stony way.”
The peddler removed his pack and set it on the floor. “And you have also labored over the wide sea, only to be stranded on the rocks as I have, I’ll warrant?”
The formula was complete. Laduro looked around the room, alert for anyone who might be paying undue attention to his new acquaintance or to himself. The waitress was approaching, but no one else was giving any notice to the men in the corner.
The barmaid took the coin offered, examined it closely, and left.
Laduro turned to the peddler.
“We have met before, perhaps?”
“Yes. May this meeting be more fortunate than the last.” The peddler reached out and picked up his tankard. “I have been looking for you,” he explained, “for some time, as I have been looking for others. You have been hard to find.” He sipped, then set the tankard down and looked Laduro in the eye.
“Let us not worry further about codes,” he said. “What would you be able to do if you had the secrets of the Great Ships of Jorik, the Lift of Alerom, and the other magic of the emperor?”
Laduro blinked and raised his tankard to his lips, collecting his thoughts. At last, he reached a decision.
“Why,” he said, “the Following is large. And we number artisans of every trade.” Cautiously, he looked about the large room.
“We might be able to do many things,” he added. “And we might gain many more believers, since it profits a man little to follow the emperor in these days.” He picked up his tankard and drank quickly, draining it. Then he looked at the peddler’s cup.
“This lowlands beer becomes tiresome,” he said. “And here is no place to talk freely. Follow me, Good Friend, and we will go to another place I know of. There, perhaps we may find others with whom we may talk in full fellowship and trust.”
Barskor looked up as Meinora walked into the control room.
“Reports all in, sir?”
“Just reviewed the last one.” Meinora leaned against a safety rail and rubbed a hand across his cheek. “I’ll work up the summary while we’re on the way out.” He yawned. “Little tired right now.”
“The course data through the curtain will have to go in, won’t it?”
“Oh, sure.” Meinora looked up. “Got your incoming data all tabulated on one of the reels. It’s cued so we can feed in the rest soon’s we come out into normal space. Should be a smoother trip, this time.”
Barskor nodded. “Should be,” he agreed. “Present data’ll let us anticipate a little. By the time we’re out, I’ll have some pretty complete data to feed in.” He set up a course and punched the drive actuators, then glanced at the viewsphere and leaned back.
“She’ll be all right on auto till we get out of the system’s grav field,” he remarked. “Then I can run on out to the curtain before I have anything to worry about. Meantime, I’ve got a question. That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh? Don’t mind a bit. What’s wrong?”
“Seemed as though Delman and I got on the sidelines toward the last. We were working Quinbar, you know, sir. Most of the time, we were phased in with the rest of the team, but something went by us anyway.” He shook his head.
“Toward the end, things moved so fast we didn’t get much excepting the viewpoint of the emperor and his people. And they never found out what hit ’em. What actually happened?”
Meinora laughed. “You know,” he said, “you got practically everything anyone else did. Once the thing got rolling, we didn’t do much at all. And things did happen pretty fast. Of course, you know about some of the team members getting to work on various inquisitors and agitating them?”
“Oh, sure.” Barskor grinned. “Did a little of that myself.”
“Well, that set the stage. Then Weroaen contacted the Followers of Duern. He posed as a renegade member of the House of Quinbar who had seen the truth, and he claimed to have stolen the plans for practically all the technical equipment the emperor had.
“He handed over the antigrav, the energy accumulator, and all the other applications of magneto-gravities that Quinbar’s people had ever thought of. He also gave them plans for a flier.” He spread his hands.
“None of that was new knowledge to this planet, you know. It had been discovered and suppressed, to be used by a small group. So it was legitimate to publish it.” He shrugged.
“Of course, we were guilty of a little skullduggery,” he admitted, “in that we influenced the inquisitors to make life so miserable for everyone from the top nobles on down that they were ripe for anything. And we kept the inquisition so hot no one had any time to bother the real Duernians.” He smiled.
“The main body of people virtually stampeded to come to the party when the Followers started tearing into Quinbar,” he added.
“Of course, there’s one new thing,” he said thoughtfully. “That modulated beam they used to rip up Quinbar’s factories and his castle wasn’t anything we’d given them. They dreamed that one up for themselves from the data they were furnished.” He shook his head.
“You know, I think they’ll be coming out to look over the galaxy one day in the very near future. But this time, I don’t think they’ll see any necessity for sending missionaries.”
THE END
DON MICHAELS twisted about uneasily for a moment, then looked toward the doors of the darkened auditorium. He shook his head, then returned his attention to the stage. Of course, he’d joined in the applause—a guy felt sort of idiotic, just sitting there while everyone else in the place made loud noises—but that comedy act had been pretty smelly. They should have groaned instead of applauding.
Oh, sure, he thought, the drama students had to have experience on the stage. And they really needed an audience—if they were going to have any realism in their performances. Sure, that part of it was all right, but why did the professionals have to join the party? Why did they have to have ‘cast
s like that last thing—especially at a school Aud Call? It seemed anything but educational, and he’d had to skip a good class for this one. He shrugged. Of course, everyone else had skipped one class or another, he knew. So why should he be an exception? Too, some of the students would welcome and applaud anything that gave them a break from their studies. And the schedule probably took account of this sort of thing anyway. But . . .
A fanfare interrupted his thoughts. From the backstage speakers came the smooth rhythm of a band playing a march trio. He sat back.
The screen glowed and became a large rectangle of blue, dotted with fleecy clouds. In the distance, the towers of Oreladar poked up from a carpet of green trees.
Swiftly, the camera approached the city, to center for a moment on a large sports stadium. Players dashed across the turf, then the camera swung away. Briefly, it paused to record various city scenes, then it crossed the walls of the Palace and came to ground level on the parade grounds of the Royal Guards.
A review was underway. For a few seconds, the camera held on the massed troops, then it centered on the reviewing stand. The band modulated smoothly into a brilliant quickstep and a column of guards marched to center screen, the colors of their dress uniforms contrasting with the green of the perfectly kept field.
Now, the field of view narrowed, centering the view first on the color guard, then on the colors alone. The camera moved down till the gold and blue of Oredan’s royal colors stood out against the blue sky.
The band music faded, to be over-ridden then replaced by a smooth baritone voice.
“This is your news reporter,” it said, “Merle Boyce, bringing you the latest happenings of the day.”
The colors receded, their background blurring then coming into focus again. Now, they stood before a large window. Again, the camera receded and a man appeared in the foreground. For a moment he sat at his plain desk, gazing directly out of the screen and seeming to look searchingly into Don’s face. Then he smiled engagingly and nodded.
“As every citizen of Oredan knows,” he said, “this nation has been swept by a wave of terrorism during the few days past. Indeed, the now notorious Waern affair became so serious that our Prime Minister found it necessary to take personal command of the Enforcement Corps and direct the search for the terrorists himself. Now, he is present, to bring to you, the people, his report of the conclusion of this terrible affair.” He paused, drawing a breath.
“Citizen of Oredan,” he declaimed slowly, “the Prime Minister, Daniel Stern, Prince Regent.”
He faced away from the camera and faded from view. Again, the gold and blue of Oredan filled the screen.
There was a brief blare of trumpets. Then drums rolled and the heavy banner swept aside to reveal a tall, slender man, who approached the camera deliberately. He glanced aside for a moment, then pinned his audience with an intense stare.
“This has been a terrible experience for many of our people,” he began. “And it has been a harrowing time for your public officials. One of our own—a one-time police commissioner—a man sworn to uphold law and order, has suddenly revealed himself as a prime enemy of the realm and of our people. This in itself is a bad thing. But this was not enough for Harle Waern.” He held out a hand, his face growing stern.
“No, Waern was unwilling to abide by the results of a lawful trial, knowing the outcome of any full investigation into his activities, he chose to lash out further at authority and to burn his way out of detention. He killed some of his guards. He released other criminals. He formed them into a gang, enlisting their aid in cutting and burning his way across our land in an obvious effort to reach the hills and possibly stir some of the mountain clans to rebellion. And as he went, he left destruction and death.” He nodded his head sadly.
“Yes, it is painful to report, but it must be admitted that no less than twenty innocent people have lost their lives as a result of Waern’s actions. And many more have been injured or have suffered property loss. It has been a savage affair—one we’ll be long in forgetting. And it is with considerable relief that we can report its final conclusion.” He stepped back, then faded from view.
The screen brightened again to show a rambling white house which nestled in a grove of shade trees. Behind it, rose a small hill which acted as a mere step toward the peaks of high mountains beyond. Before it was a broad lawn, dotted with lounging furniture. Reflected in its windows was the glow of the rising sun, which flood-lit the entire scene. From the speakers came muted sounds. An insect chirped. Hurrying footsteps crunched on gravel. There were soft rattles and bangs, and somewhere a motor rumbled briefly, then coughed to silence.
“We are now,” said a voice, “a few miles outside of the city of Riandar, where Harle Waern had this summer estate built for him.”
As the announcer spoke, the camera moved about to pick out details of the estate. It showed a swimming pool back of the house. It swung briefly about landscaped gardens, scanning across cultivated fields and orchards. It flicked across a winding, tree-lined road, then came back to a rough area before the smooth lawn.
Partially concealed from the house by waving grass and field weeds, men were moving cautiously about the fields. Near a small hummock, a loudspeaker rose from its stand, to face the house. A man lay not too far from the base of the stand. Microphone in hand, he looked intently through the grass, to study the windows of the house. Then he glanced back to note the positions of the others.
The camera’s viewpoint raised, to take in the entire scene beyond the field. The sky blurred, then seemed to open, to show Daniel Stern’s long, thin face. He cast his eyes down for a moment, seeming to take in the details of the scene, then stared straight at the audience, his deep-set eyes glowing hypnotically.
“Here then,” he said slowly, “is one of the properties which Harle Waern bought while acting as Police Commissioner of Riandar. Here is a mere sample of the gains he enjoyed for a time as the price of his defections from his oath of office. And here is the stage he chose for the final act, his last struggle against the nation he had betrayed.”
His face faded from view, the deep-set eyes shining from the sky for a time after the rest of the face had faded from view.
Then the camera swung again, to show a low-slung weapons carrier which had pulled up a few dozen meters back of the man with the microphone. About it, the air shimmered a little, as though a filmy screen lay between vehicle and camera. It softened the harsh lines of the carrier and its weapon, lending them an almost mystical appearance.
The crew chief was clearly visible, however. He was making adjustments on one of the instruments on the projector mount. One of the crew members stood by on the charge rack, busying himself with adjustments on the charge activators. None of the crew looked toward the camera.
The loud-speaker clicked and rasped into life.
“Harle Waern, this is the Enforcement Corps. We know you are in there. You were seen to go into that house with your friends. You have one minute to throw out your weapons and come out with your hands in the air. This is your last chance.”
There was another click from the loud-speaker. Then the scene was quiet.
Someone cleared his throat. The man with the microphone shifted his position and lay stretched out. He had sought cover behind the hummock near the speaker stand and now he raised his head cautiously, to watch the silent windows of the house. Other men lay in similar positions, their attention on the windows, their weapons ready. The windows stared blankly back.
The camera shifted back to the weapons carrier. A low voice spoke.
“Let’s have a look at that scope, Walton.”
A man’s back moved aside and the light and dark pattern of the range detector showed on the screen. The low voice spoke again.
“Four of them,” it said. “Looks as though they’ve got a small arsenal in there with ‘em. See those bright pips?”
“Khroal?” queried another voice.
“A couple of those, yeah,” the fi
rst voice said. “But that isn’t too bad. Those are just antipersonnel. They’ve got a pair of rippers, too. Good thing we’ve got screens up. And there’s a firebug. They could give those guys on the ground a real hard time.” A finger appeared in front of the detector.
“See that haze with the lines in it?”
“Them the charges?”
“That’s right. They show up like that on both scopes, see? You can always spot heat-ray charges. They look like nothing else. Only trouble is, they louse up the range scale. You can’t tell—”
Don looked critically at the carrier.
There was, he thought, evidence of carelessness. No deflector screens were set up. A Moreku tribesman could put a stone from a sling in there, and really mess them up—if he could sneak in close enough. He grinned inwardly.
“Of course, if he hit the right spot, he’d go up with ‘em,” he told himself. “Be quite a blast.”
He continued to study the weapons carrier arrangements, noting that the chargers were hot, ready for instant activation. Even the gun current was on. He could see the faint iridescence around the beam-forming elements. He shook his head.
“Hit that lens system against something right now,” he muttered inaudibly, “or get something in the field, and that would be the end.”
The loud-speaker clicked again and the camera swung to center the house in its field of view.
“Your time is running out, Waern.” The amplified roar of the voice reverberated from the hills. “You have twenty seconds left.”
Abruptly, the speaker became a blaze of almost intolerable light. The man near it rolled away hurriedly, dropping his microphone. Another man quickly picked up a handset and spoke briefly into it.
Again, the camera picked up the weapons carrier. The crew chief had his hand on his microphone switch. He nodded curtly and adjusted a dial. The lens barrel of the projector swung toward the house, stopped, swung back a trifle, and held steady.
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