“True,” Dar agreed. “That's why it's so important to get the two groups to understand each other, and do some socializing. You might fight your customer, but you won't fight your friend—if we can get them to be friends. If a real war does start, and if all the Wolman tribes ever unite against us, we're dead. They outnumber us a thousand to one. Blasters would just speed up the process, that's all.”
“Then why not sell them blasters?” Sam demanded. “Why just spare parts?”
“Well, for one thing, whole blasters are a little difficult to get the Army to ship to a prison planet.” Dar pressed a button in the side of the plastic cube; it started to hum. “But spare parts they'll ship us by the thousands.”
Sam shook her head. “The insanities of bureacracy!” She watched the humming cube begin to unfold and expand. “And for another thing?”
“For another thing, if we just sell them parts and instruction manuals, they have to learn how to put the dern things together.” Dar smiled, a faraway look in his eyes. “And that makes 'em begin to wonder how and why it works—so they end up learning technology. Wait'll they find out what a headache that lathe's going to be! Just to get it working, they'll have to learn so much!”
“Something of a sadist, aren't you?”
“It goes with being a teacher.” Dar watched the plastic cube finish swelling into a slant-roofed shack, ten feet on a side. “ ‘Bout time to turn in for the night.”
Sam shook her head, looking frazzled. “If I'd known it was like this . . .”
“Hey, I never promised you a grav-bed or synthsilk sheets!”
“No, no! I mean this whole planet! The structure your General's built up! The things he's trying to do! If I'd known it was like this, I would've personally put a bomb on that new governor's ship!”
Dar froze halfway through the door.
Then he looked back over his shoulder. “Excuse me—what was that again?”
“The new governor” Sam frowned. “You know—the one that's supposed to arrive tomorrow.”
Dar uncoiled back out of the door and straightened up. “No, as it happens, I didn't know. And neither does anyone else on Wolmar.”
“They didn't tell you?” Sam looked startled. “Well . . . anyway, they're doing it. BOA's sending out a new governor, with power to ship Shacklar home and take over all his authority. They're kind of unhappy that the ‘Wolman Question' is taking so long to resolve.”
“Oh, they are?” Dar breathed. “How interesting. How'd you come by this fascinating little tidbit? Common knowledge back on Terra?”
“Well, I wouldn't exactly call it headline news. . . .”
“We're not quite that important,” Dar agreed dryly.
“It was the last piece of paper to cross my desk the day I quit—arranging transportation for this man Bhelabher and his aides.”
“Bhelabher, mm? What's he like?”
“Oh . . .” Sam shrugged. “You know—nothing exceptional. A career civil servant, that's all.”
“Quite,” Dar agreed. “Stodgy, you might say?”
“Stuffy,” Sam confirmed. “Very conservative—especially about military procedure and the treatment of convicts. . . . What are you doing?”
“Packing up.” Dar punched a button and watched the shack start folding itself back into a cube. “We're getting back to town.”
“I said something?”
“You did—and you've got to say it again, as soon as possible. To Shacklar. We've got to make sure he knows what's coming.”
3
“Whatever you do, don't let him know what's coming,” Cholly advised.
“But he's gotta get ready!” Dar protested. “Repel boarders! Fire when he sees the gleam of their spaceship! Damn the triplicates, full speed ahead! Over the top!”
“Under the counter,” Cholly corrected. “Whatever happens, he's got to be able to truthfully say he doesn't know anything about it.”
“Oh.” Dar caught the inside of his cheek between his teeth. “I forgot about that.”
“Don't.” Cholly began polishing the bar again. “A clean conscience and a clean record, lad.”
“First rule in political lying,” Dar explained to Sam. “Don't. Be able to claim somebody misunderstood you—or did it on their own.”
“We'll have to do it on our own, for this one,” Cholly amended. “The General's a horrible liar Can't even claim he was misunderstood.”
Dar nodded resolutely. “Right. How about a quick commando raid?”
“Illegal,” Cholly pointed out.
“You don't think you can get rid of Bhelabher legally!” Sam exclaimed.
“Nay, but we can do it in a way that can't be proven illegal.”
“He means we've gotta be able to claim it was an accident,” Dar explained.
“Great.” Sam's lips thinned. “ ‘Excuse me, sir, I didn't mean to slip that strychnine in your martini.' ‘Oh heavens, my bomb! I dropped it!’ ”
“Effective, but impractical,” Cholly said judiciously. “Very hard to ignore.”
“But you've got to do something! Think of the good of the planet!”
“I do,” Cholly said thoughtfully, “and personally, what I'd say this planet needs is a good customs office.”
“Real Scotch whiskey, mind,” the sergeant reminded.
Dar nodded. “Straight from Terra itself—Nova Scotia Regal. Two liters each, for you and your corporal.”
“Fair enough!” The sergeant shouldered his laser rifle and came to attention. “We'll stand guard day in and day out, mate—for all day tomorrow, that is. Though why you'd want to guard this old shack is beyond my understandin'. Ain't been nothin' in there but spare parts an' waste for ten years.”
“There is now.” Dar peeled off the backing and reached up to press the new sign into place over the doorway of the battered geodesic. “A carpet, five chairs, two ashtrays, and a counter.”
“ ‘Customs Office'?” The corporal squinted up at the sign. “Is this official?”
“Thoroughly,” Dar assured him. “Believe me, I know—I wrote up the orders myself.”
“Shacklar ordered it, hm?”
“You can't expect him to keep track of every little thing.”
The sergeant let out a throttled moan and stiffened, reddening. Dar looked up at him, frowning, then followed the direction of his gaze—to see Sam coming up to him, dressed in a tight-fitting blue uniform with gold epaulets and a visored beret. Dar stiffened, too—he hadn't been sure she had a figure.
“Cholly looked up his billings and found a Wolman who'd ordered a sewing machine.” She handed Dar a flat, neatly tied package, oblivious to their stares. “His wife was willing to do a rush job.”
Dar shook himself. “Uh, great. What'd it cost him?”
“Four power packs, six blaster barrels, two circuit chips, and a bathtub.”
“Worth every credit,” the sergeant wheezed, his eyes locked on her.
“Better get to it.” Sam turned to the door. “I've got to set up the terminal and the paperwork.”
“Uh—right.” Dar tore his eyes away from her and glanced at his watch-ring. “How much time do we have?”
“Cholly says the ferry's due to take off from your moon at thirteen o'clock,” Sam said from inside the shack. “What time is it?”
“Thirteen o'clock.” Dar started stripping.
“Here then, Dar Mandra!”
Dar looked up, irritated, then snatched at his uniform; it wasn't good policy for a Wolman to see soldiers naked, and the man coming up with Cholly was the shaman of the Sars tribe.
“Peace, Dar Mandra.” The shaman held up a hand.
“Uh, peace, Reverend.” Dar scrambled into his uniform, sealed the tunic, and held up a palm. “Honored to see you, but, uh—why're you wearing a Customs uniform?”
“Why, he's one of yer staff now, ain'cha, Reverend?” Cholly grinned. “Just to cover all bets, Dar.”
“Ye-e-e-e-ah.” Dar's eyes slowly widened. “Your �
�hunches' might come in handy, Reverend.”
“ ‘Officer Haldane,' for the time being, Dar Mandra.” The shaman wrung Dar's hand a bit awkwardly; he wasn't used to the custom. “You understand, I cannot guarantee to know the speaking of their minds.”
“Yes, yes, I know the Power sends the gift when It wishes, not when we do.” Dar clasped his hands behind his back and massaged his knuckles. “But I hope It'll be with us today, Rever . . . uh, Officer Haldane.”
“I, too,” the shaman said somberly. “Shacklar must remain with us, Dar Mandra. I have no wish to see my young men die leaning on laser beams—nor yours, either.”
“Definitely not.” Dar was suddenly very conscious of his age.
“And I think you had best arrange matters so I need not speak.”
“Oh, I'm sure that won't be necessary, Reverend,” Dar said quickly. “You speak better Terran than I do.”
“It is kind of you—but I do have something of an accent.”
“Less'n mine,” Cholly said. “Still, the Rev has the right of it, lad—there might be an aide who knows something of Wolman.”
“And though I have washed off my dye for the occasion, my nation is written in my face, for him who knows how to see it.” The shaman stilled suddenly, then peered upward. “The Power favors me this day, Dar Mandra. Your enemies approach.”
Dar squinted up at the sky, but couldn't detect the faintest glimmer of flame. Still . . . “Your word's good enough for me, Reverend. Shall we go look official?”
The ferry roared down, blackening the blast pit anew. Dar watched through the window as the ramp slid out and the hatch lifted. He saw the party troop out and stop in consternation at the sight of the shack. The guards glanced at each other and stepped forward; the sergeant went up to the group, holding his rifle at port arms, and had a few words with a fox-faced man in the front row. Another man elbowed his way to the fore to interrupt their conversation. He wasn't tall exactly, but he gave the impression of towering height; and he was skinny, but he had a massive presence. The longer his conversation with the sergeant went on, the more clearly Dar could hear his voice; but the sergeant remained firm and apparently soft-voiced; he just waited for a blast to blow itself out, then said a few words and leaned into the next blast. But Dar did begin to notice his rifle barrel twitching. Mentally, Dar upped the sergeant two pints of Scotch and a fifth of bourbon.
Finally, the skinny man threw his head up in exasperation and started for the shack. His entourage swept along behind him, and the sergeant followed, poker-faced.
“Get ready,” Dar said softly, “customers.”
The door slammed open, and the skinny man waded in. “Who is responsible for this farce?”
“I'm the senior official present, sir.” Dar kept his face carefully neutral. “May I be of service?”
“Service! You can serve me admirably by dismissing this piece of asininity and conveying us immediately to your Government House!”
“Certainly, sir—as soon as we've cleared you through Customs.”
“Customs! This planet has never had a Customs Office! I've read all the reports!”
“An innovation,” Dar said truthfully. “We're constantly trying to improve conditions, sir.”
The rest of the entourage had trooped in; the corporal shut the door behind them. He and the sergeant discreetly took up places at the corners of the room.
“Honorable Bhelabher . . .” The fox-faced man appeared at the skinny man's elbow. “. . . it may be that these good people are unaware of your official status.” He gave Dar a glare of such intense malice that Dar felt his blood-temperature drop. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Reverend Haldane wince just the tiniest bit.
“Well taken, Canis, well taken,” Bhelabher harrumphed. He turned back to Dar. “See here, fellow—do you know who I am?”
“Not really, sir—but I would like to find out. May I see your passport, please?” Dar decided Sam might've had the right idea after all: strychnine. “Fellow,” indeed!
“Passport!” Bhelabher bellowed. “Young man, I'll have you know I'm your new governor!”
Dar paused and widened his eyes just a trifle; then he leaned forward, holding out his hand. “An interesting theory, Honorable; I'll have to validate it with Government House. I'm afraid I haven't heard anything about Governor Shacklar being replaced, though. May I see your passport, please?”
“Absurd! On a planet full of convicts, certainly I should be above suspicion!”
“But because this is a convict planet, no one can be above suspicion,” Dar said smoothly. “I'm afraid I must insist on seeing your credentials, Honorable.”
Bhelabher began to redden, making choking, gargling sounds; but the fox-faced man put a hand on his arm, and he subsided just short of magenta. “Very well, if you must!” Bhelabher growled. “Atavista, our credentials, please.”
A skinny young woman stepped up to open a folder and lay a set of microholos on the counter. Her clothing was skintight and transparent which, given her figure, wasn't exactly an advantage; but Dar found he had to focus very tightly on her face anyway. That definitely did the trick.
Sam took the microholos and began feeding them through the terminal. Dar noticed that the bottom wafer was a plastyrus envelope with Shacklar's name on it.
Reverend Haldane stepped up next to Dar, collecting the wafers as Sam handed them back. He glanced at the fox-faced man and murmured, so softly that Dar could scarcely hear him, “Each person has copies of all those documents in his luggage.” Dar carefully didn't let anything show in his face, but he pressed his hand flat against the counter to show he'd heard. He also noticed that the plastyrus envelope didn't come back to the stack.
Sam finished and turned to murmur something to the Reverend. He turned to Dar and murmured, “Officer Bine says the documents bear a lock-code and will not read through our Central.”
Nice, Dar thought. He'd wondered how he was going to justify it. Sam seemed more interesting than ever. “I'm afraid we'll have to retain your documents. Honorable.”
“What?”
Dar glanced up to make sure the roof was still on the shack, then back to Bhelabher. “I'm afraid we'll have to retain your credentials. You see, they seem to be locked under a security code which hasn't been transmitted to our computer.”
“This is outrageous!” Bhelabher stormed. “Of all the inconceivable idiocies I've encountered, this has to be the most imbecilic! Young man, I will not tolerate this!”
“I'm afraid we have no choice,” Dar said regretfully. “And, under the circumstances, I'm afraid it will be necessary to search every item of your party's luggage.”
Bhelabher began reddening and gargling again, and the fox-faced man's glare narrowed to an ice pick.
“I appreciate that you may find this unacceptable,” Dar sympathized. “If so, the shuttle isn't quite done refueling yet; I'm sure the pilot will be glad to take you back.”
Bhelabher clamped his jaw shut, his eyes bulged, and the room was very silent for a few seconds. Then he released a huge hiss of breath and snapped, “Very well. We'll begin with mine. Canis, the bags, please.”
Canis glanced at him, frowning, but stepped forward and hoisted two valises onto the counter. Dar opened them and passed them to Sam and the Reverend, who each began shuffling through the stacks of paper-thin garments in a half of each bag. Dar couldn't detect anything being removed but, when Sam closed the bag, set it upright on the counter, and turned to nod to Dar, there was a very meaningful look in her eye.
Dar made a mental note that she was a sleight-of-hand artist, too, and never to play poker with her; but he also started making very definite plans to start playing some other game with her as soon as he could maneuver her into it. He opened the next suitcase and passed it on.
They were quick, she and the Reverend; but there were a lot of bags, and the time stretched out. The aides began to mutter and grumble to one another, but Bhelabher stood rock-still, legs apart, hands
clasped in front of him; and Canis stood like a malevolent statue at his side—or a ventriloquist's mannequin, Dar thought. He wondered which one was really doing the talking.
Finally Sam closed the last case and gave him the nod. Dar turned to Bhelabher with a smile. “All done, Honorable.”
“Thank you,” Bhelabher said sourly. “I assume we now have the freedom of the planet?”
“Uh—I'm sorry, Honorable.” Dar looked up in surprise. “I thought I'd made that clear.”
“Clear? How so?” There was an ominous rumble under Bhelabher's voice.
“Your credentials,” Dar explained. “We can't admit you officially until they've been verified with Government House. We should have them back to you in twenty-four hours, though.”
“Twenty-four hours!”
“If General Shacklar has the lock-code for your documents. Longer, if he doesn't. But I'm sure he will.”
There was a moment's silence while Bhelabher's face puffed up and passed magenta.
Dar braced himself.
Then the Honorable erupted. Dar leaned into the blast and listened closely; he was always out to improve his vocabulary. He wasn't sure what half the words meant; but he did get the impression that:
1)
the Honorable was somewhat distressed by this turn of events;
2)
the delay was totally unacceptable;
3)
there was obviously a conspiracy afoot to prevent his assuming his rightful post; and that
4)
he thought Dar's hide would make an excellent ornament for his new office, nailed to the wall and tastefully decorated with a carefully balanced pattern of intersecting whip-welts.
When Bhelabher ran down, Dar glanced at Sam, who whipped out a pad and jotted down a few lines.
“Your protest is noted,” Dar said with a small, polite smile, “but I'm afraid that's all we can do about it. Regulations are regulations, Honorable. I'm sure you understand.”
Bhelabher took a breath, but the sergeant cleared his throat rather loudly and transferred his blaster rifle from his left shoulder to his right. Bhelabher paused in mid-gasp, glanced at the soldier out of the corner of his eye, then slowly closed his mouth and turned back to Dar. “Of course. Quite. I trust you have accommodations for myself and my staff while we endure this outrage?”
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