by Anthology
"Oh, yes," he added, "and you might interview this young Kelton again, with his companions. Thus, you will gather evidence for use in justifying my operations."
Masterson looked at him unhappily. "Well ... all right," he agreed reluctantly. "Rank has its privileges, I suppose. And I guess in this case, that includes the collection of more rank. Suppose I'd better take what I can get."
"To be sure." Rayson smiled at him benignly. "This way, you are sure of profiting. Otherwise, you might run into disaster." He rose and strode toward the door.
"You may get those boys in for interview as soon as I leave," he said. "From them, you can get sufficient evidence of these powers of your young friend. Ah ... and I would suggest that you use a little more discretion with them than you showed with this young Michaels of ours. You were a trifle--shall we say, crude?" He coughed.
"Then you may call in and advise Headquarters that evidence has been gathered and action is being taken in this case of Donald Michaels."
He turned and went out the door.
Masterson watched as the door closed, then reached into the back of a desk drawer. He took out a small box with a number of switches mounted on its top. For a moment, he examined the object, then he got to his feet and went to the window.
He stood, looking out of the window for a few moments, nodded, and let his fingers play among the switches. Finally, he nodded in satisfaction and went back to his desk.
He looked contemplatively at the telephone for a moment, then picked it up and started flipping at the dial.
* * * * *
The sports flier dropped free for the last few feet, bounced, tilted, and finally righted itself. It was not a very good landing.
Don snapped the switch off and sat for a moment, looking out at the long, low house. Then he let himself out of the flier and walked across the courtyard and through the door.
The front room was empty. He looked over at the wide glass panels that formed one side of the room. A small, dark man came from between the bushes of the inner garden. He slid a panel aside and looked expressionlessly at Don for a moment. Then he slowly allowed his head to drop.
"Master Donald," he said. He raised his head, looking at Don with brilliant yellow eyes. "Your father did not expect you until two days."
"I know, Dowro. But I came home early. I want to talk to him."
"It is well." The man motioned toward a curtained arch. "He is below."
"Thanks, Dowro. I'll find him." Don swept the curtains aside and turned, to open a heavy door.
As he started down the steep flight of stairs, a sharp crack came from the basement. He grinned. With this kind of weather, the range would be busy.
Kent Michaels stood on the plastic flooring, a rifle at his shoulder. The front sight weaved almost imperceptibly, then steadied. He seemed completely unaware of his son's presence.
Suddenly, a spurt of smoke came from the muzzle of the rifle. There was another sharp crack and the muzzle swept upward then dropped, to become steady again.
At last, the shooter took the weapon from his shoulder and opened the action. He looked around.
"Oh, Don," he said. "Didn't expect you for a couple of days. There's no holiday down there right now, is there?"
Don shook his head. "I made a new one," he said. "Permanent type."
His father bent over the rifle action, examining it. Then he stepped over to place the weapon in a rack. Finally, he turned, to look searchingly at his son.
"Permanent?"
"Afraid so, Dad. I guess I sort of blew up."
"Want to tell me about it?"
The older man motioned Don to a camp stool and pulled one over for himself. As Don talked, he listened intently. At last, he nodded.
"So that's all of that, eh?"
"Guess it is, Dad. Looks as though I'll have to start working for my keep. Won't be any police official in the family after all."
"Could be." Kent Michaels got up and reached out to the weapons rack.
"Got one more shot on this target. Then we'll talk it over, hm-m-mm?"
He stepped up to a line inlaid in the floor. Deliberately, he placed a cartridge in the rifle and closed the action. Then, he raised the weapon, seated it on his shoulder, and brought it into position with a twisting motion.
Don watched, smiling in spite of himself, as the front sight rose and fell with his father's breathing. That routine never changed. From the time the Old Man picked up his weapon till he laid it down, you could predict every move he'd make.
The motion stopped and for endless seconds, the man stood motionless, the muzzle of his rifle probing steadily toward the lighted space downrange. Then the front sight jumped upward, settled back, and steadied again.
"Looked good." Kent Michaels let the weapon down, opened the action and checked it, then racked the weapon. He touched a button near the firing line and waited for the target to come in to him.
Deliberately, he unclipped the sheet of paper, laid it down, and clipped another in its place. He touched another button, then picked up the fired target and bent over it, checking his score. Finally, he looked up.
"Ninety-seven," he said. "Four X's. Think you can beat it?" He walked back to the rack and picked out a rifle. After glancing into the action, he held it out toward Don.
"Zero hasn't been changed since you fired it last. Want to take a couple of free ones anyway, just to be sure?"
Don looked at him indignantly.
"Good grief, Dad," he objected. "This is no time for a rifle match."
"Good as any, I'd say," his father told him. "Go ahead. There's a block of ammo at the point. Take your time, but you'll have to make 'em good." He sat down on his camp stool and waited.
Don looked at him for a few seconds, then shook his head resignedly and stepped up to the line.
"Oh, well," he said. "I'll try. Never mind the zero rounds."
He loaded the rifle and brought it to his shoulder. The sight weaved and bobbed. He brought it down again and looked back at his father. The older man pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket.
"Go ahead," he said calmly. "Take a few deep breaths. And relax."
Don bowed his shoulders and let the rifle hang loosely from his outstretched arms. He looked downrange, trying to drive everything out of his mind but the target hanging down there. Finally, he raised the weapon again. The sight bobbed about, then steadied. He put pressure on the trigger, then growled softly as the weapon fired.
"Oh, no! Drifted off at three o'clock."
His father exhaled a small cloud of smoke and said nothing. Don looked at him unhappily for a moment, then reloaded and brought the rifle up again.
Finally, the tenth shot smacked against the backstop and he racked his weapon and punched at the target return button.
His father got up and unclipped the sheet.
"Well, let's see," he said. "Eight, nine, nine ... here's a nipper ten ... nine ... oh, me! You didn't do so well, did you?"
"What would you expect?" grumbled Don. "Give me a couple of hours to simmer down and I'll take you on. Beat you, too."
"Suppose you got into a fight, Don?" his father asked. "Think the guy'd give you a couple hours to simmer down? So you could maybe shoot his eye out?"
* * * * *
He turned and led the way to a couple of lounge chairs.
"Sit down," he advised. "And turn on that light, will you?" He leaned back.
"So you gave Andy Masterson a fast outline on manners, eh?" He laughed softly. "Boy, I'd like to have seen his face about then!"
Don jerked his head around. "You know him, Dad?"
"You could say I did once," his father answered. "We went through Guard training together. Served on the same base a few times. Some years ago, I retired. I'm pretty sure he didn't."
Don pushed himself out of the chair and stood in front of his father.
"You mean Mr. Masterson is----"
Kent Michaels nodded slowly. "Stellar Guard Investigations? Yes, and I s
uspect he could wear quite a bit of silver lace, too, if he wanted to get dressed up." He clasped his hands behind his head.
"Let's see, Don, you're almost twenty now. Right?"
"That's right, Dad."
"Uh huh. And you were born here on Khloris. Means I've been out of active duty for quite a while, at that." He smiled.
"Got papers upstairs. They say I retired a little more than twenty-one years ago. Got official permission to live on an outworld and joined the first group of colonists here. Of course, they don't say anything about the people that told me to do all that."
Don stared at him. "What are you getting at, Dad?"
His father smiled. "Man retires, he's supposed to be all through with duty. Not subject to recall except in case of galaxy-wide emergency." He nodded thoughtfully.
"True. But a lot of people never really retire from the Guard. Things keep coming up, and that pension begins to look more like a retainer fee."
He held up a hand.
"Suppose I give you a little go-around on some history that isn't in the books--at least not in the books they use in these schools.
"Of course, you know about the arrival of the Stellar Queen. You've read all about the original trade contracts here in Oredan. And you've read a lot about the immigrations. And the border settlements.
"Yes, and you know about the accession of Daniel Stern, first to the Ministry of Finance, then to the Prime Ministry, then to the Regency. Quite a success story, that. And you have read about the mixup in the royal succession." He smiled.
"It all went about that way. Oh, sure, it wasn't quite as peaceable and orderly as the books make it look, but no history bothers with the minor slugfests. What they're concerned in is the big picture.
"Well, when the king agreed to colonization of the outer provinces, quite a few people came crowding out here. And there was more than a little thievery and brawling and rioting. Naturally, the Federation Council was interested. And the Stellar Guard was more directly interested.
[Illustration]
"So, they encouraged a lot of retired guardsmen to come out here, weapons and all. And they assigned a few more people to ... well, sort of keep an eye on things. They set some people up with reasonably decent claims, saw to it that the rest of us got a good start, and left us to take it from there." He smiled.
"We had some fun, now and then. Got the border pacified. Got the crooks and the tough boys calmed down. And we got the hill tribes cooled off some, too. Even made friends with them--after a while. And some guys got married and made noises like real Khlorisanu--genuine Oredanu, in fact. A few of them married Oredana girls." He laughed shortly.
"The Khlorisanu are humanoid--human to as many decimals as you need to go. There's a little minor variation in superficial appearance between them and the average galactic, but there's no basic difference. Quite a few of the fellows found the local girls made good wives.
"But anyway. There wasn't any real organization among us. We just ... well, sort of knew what the other fellow was about. Kind of kept our own personal policy files. And things went along pretty well.
"Oh, there were some fellows who stuck to some sort of organizational structure, I suppose. You know how that is--some guys can't draw a deep breath unless the rest of the team is there to fill in the picture.
* * * * *
"And then, there were several people like Andy Masterson, who showed up from nowhere. That was none of my business. Happened to know Andy, but I've never talked to him here. Those people had complete new backgrounds. No Guard experience--it says here. And they joined the economy--took out Oredan citizenship. Some of them got into government work.
"Then this guy, Daniel Stern, showed up. He started grabbing influence with both hands. Smart young guy. Killed off a prime minister--we think--and a king. Can't prove any of that, though." Kent shook his head.
"Don't think we didn't try to stop him, once we realized what he was up to. We did. About that time, a whole lot of us did get together and organize. But he's one of those people. If he tells a man to go out and shoot himself, the next thing you hear is the sound of a falling body." His eyes clouded and he looked searchingly at Don.
"You should know what I mean. Like when you told that Ghar thief to tell us all about it--remember?"
"Look, Dad, that's something I'd like to know...."
Kent Michaels waved a hand. "So would I. But I know less about it than you do, so it's no use. All I know is that some people can tell most anyone to do almost anything--and it gets done. As I said, Stern seems to be one of them." He shrugged.
"Anyway, we lost a lot of good colonists before we decided to sit back and wait this boy out.
"It's been a long wait. Some of us have gotten rich in the meantime, in spite of Stern's trick taxes. Some of us have had a pretty rough time, I guess. But we're all growing older, and Stern's pretty cagey about immigration. Doubt if many guardsmen are getting in these days. We're going to have to depend on our kids, I think."
Don leaned forward.
"In other words, I could have kicked over an applecart?"
"Well, let's say you might have bent an axle on your own pretty, blue wagon. It's a good thing Masterson was there when you blew up. Anyone else, and I might have come up short one son. I wouldn't like that too well. Might make me go down to Oreladar and try a little target practice." He frowned thoughtfully.
"You know, come to think of it, no one ever made me do anything I didn't want to do."
Don looked thoughtful.
"What do I do now?"
"Just what you said. Start working for your keep. If I get the news right, the waiting period is about over. Stern's finally dipped his toe in the water, with that business over Waern, and we might be able to do something. You just might get your teeth into it. And maybe I'll find myself going back to work.
"First, you'll have to go back to Riandar. Apologize to Masterson, of course, and give him a peace offering. I'll give you a bottle of Diamond Brandy before you leave. Be sure you hold the diamond in front of him when you stick the bottle out. Otherwise, he might throw something. He'll take it from there." The older man grinned.
"And if I remember Andy Masterson, he'll come up with enough work to keep you busy."
* * * * *
Andrew Masterson frowned at the bottle held before him.
"What's this?" he inquired. "You know better than to bring stuff like this on the grounds."
Don Michaels shrugged. "Dad said there wasn't too much of it around any more. Thought you might like some."
"Oh, he did? Yeah. Well, I'll take it as well meant. Might find someone who could use it." Masterson opened a drawer and thrust the bottle inside.
"He have anything else to say?"
Don nodded, looking at Masterson's suddenly watchful eyes. "He said if you'd come up our way, he'd show you how to hold 'em and squeeze 'em. Said maybe you might like to bring up some friends some time and give them a chance to find out what border life is like."
"Huh! You mean he's still playing games with those antique lead tossers?" Masterson grinned suddenly. "Thought he'd have outgrown that foolishness years ago. By the way, how's he shooting these days?"
"Fired a pinwheel after I told him about the row yesterday. Meant he only dropped three points on the target--standing."
"So? Maybe he could do damage with one of those antiques of his, at that--if he could get someone to hold still long enough for him to shoot at them. But nobody makes ammunition for the things any more. Where's he getting that?"
"Makes it himself." Don smiled. "He's got quite a workshop down in the basement."
Masterson nodded. "That's Kent Michaels, all right. O.K., youngster, I knew who you were in the first place. Just checking. Tell me, did he get you mixed up with that antique craze of his?"
Don nodded. "I beat him at it once in a while, sir."
"Did you hand him another beating yesterday? When you went out of here, it looked as though you were going to have
to whip somebody."
Don frowned. "He made a monkey out of me. I couldn't stay on target."
"Uh, huh." Masterson nodded slowly. "Figures. Remember that, that it'll be the most valuable match you ever lost."
"Sir?"
"That's right. Yesterday, you got pretty well charged up. Even managed to warm up a secret police agent. Doesn't pay, believe me. About the time you get emotionally involved in a problem, the problem turns around and bites you. You're lucky. Someone else got bit instead--this time. You see, one of us didn't get shook up."
"I don't----"
Masterson tilted his head. "We had an unfortunate accident here right after you left. Dr. Rayson went rushing out of here and took off in his flier. Something went wrong--nobody's sure what. Maybe he didn't let his stabilizing rotors have time to lock in. Maybe a lot of things. Anyway, he flipped about fifty meters up. Came down pretty fast, and burned right by the parking lot. Quite a mess." He nodded sadly.
"Shame. Fine psychologist, and one of the best secret policemen in the realm."
"You----"
Masterson held up a hand. "Let's just say he was careless." He motioned.
"Sit down. No, not in the hot seat. Take that one over there. Then you can see things." He drew a long breath.
"Your father say anything about Stern?"
Don nodded. "He doesn't like him too well."
"He's got company. Know what Stern's trying to do, don't you?"
Don laughed uneasily. "I'm pretty well mixed up, to be truthful. From what Dad told me, he's trying to turn Oredan into a Dictatorship, with him at the head. Then, he'll take over the rest of the planet--a piece at a time."
"Close. He's planned it pretty well, too. He's got the royal succession pretty well balled up. He's almost ready to move in right now. Only one stumbling block. Know what that is?"
Don shook his head.
"Youngster named Petoen Waern. He's old enough--older than he looks. His mother's a niece of the last king. Conclave of the tribes could put him on the throne tomorrow morning. He's a bet Stern missed a while back. Now, he's trying to make up for it."