The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 04

by Anthology

  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 t
here."

  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.

  [Illustration]

  "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——