Escape Velocity

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Not here at the port,” Dar admitted. “But there are some transient facilities in town. The sergeant will show you the route—and stay nearby, in case you should need anything.”

  “Solely for our convenience,” Bhelabher said dryly. “Surely.”

  He turned to survey his staff. “Well . . . there seems to be no help for it. I see now how badly this poor, benighted colony needs our ministrations, good people. However, until we have an opportunity to streamline this laughable attempt at a bureaucracy, I'm afraid we'll have to endure some inconvenience. Please be patient.” He started toward the door.

  The corporal stepped over and opened it for him. Bhelabher paused in the doorway to look back at Dar. “You haven't heard the last of me, young man—be sure of it.”

  “But you have heard the last of us,” Dar said as the door closed behind the last aide, “and your credentials.”

  “Right here.” Sam started piling wafers on the countertop.

  “You're really good at that, y' know?” Dar yanked off his beret. “I didn't know BOA trained pickpockets.”

  “Just a difference in emphasis,” Sam said. “Besides, I wouldn't have known what to do without the Reverend. He knew right where to look in each bag.”

  “Yeah—thanks, Reverend.” Dar started peeling out of his tunic. “We couldn't have brought it off without you.”

  “The Power favored me,” Haldane said modestly. “I wish you luck, Dar Mandra. This will be, at most, an inconvenience to him.”

  “Well, I'm hoping for more—but you're right; it's only a delaying tactic. And he might not be delayed very long in getting Shacklar out here.” He pulled on his coverall and turned to Sam. “Better change. We've gotta get out of here, fast.”

  4

  The glass chattered on the table, and Dar looked up. “I could swear I heard a dull boom.”

  “Ayuh.” Cholly tilted his head to the side. “I'd almost think I had, too. Queer; ain't it?”

  “Right on the borderline between hearing and feeling.” Sam turned to Dar “Either it was very soft, or very far away.”

  “Soldiers don't go in for target practice much.” Dar turned to Cholly. “Anybody sell some Wolmen a cannon?”

  “Only the parts—and they haven't got the button yet.”

  “Must've been a natural phenomenon.” Dar tossed back the rest of his beer and set the glass down. “How long do you think it'll take 'em to realize we, ah, ‘confiscated' all the copies of their credentials?”

  “About as long as it takes them to find a hotel room—and I expect yer friend the sergeant'll lead 'em the long way 'round the barn.”

  “If I know him, he'll take 'em by way of the back pasture—which is where Bhelabher belongs, anyway. The man's got all the tact of a barbell.” Dar turned to Sam. “How'd a blusterer like that get promoted to governor, anyway?”

  “They couldn't fire him,” she explained. “He had too much seniority. So they had to kick him up to where he couldn't do any harm—to his bosses, anyway.”

  “No harm? What was he beforehand, a general?”

  “Chief filing clerk.” Sam shrugged. “Sorry, Dar, but that's the way they see it. Gossip said he'd caused three rebellions by putting the right document in the wrong place.”

  “Perfect.” Dar held out his glass for a refill. “Not even as important as a pile of molecudots.”

  “To them, you are a molecudot.”

  The door bonged, and a man in a very ornate jumpsuit came in, grinning from ear to ear.

  “You're off early today, Corve.” Cholly reached for a bottle and glass.

  “Bit of a frumus today.” Corve adjusted himself to a barstool and accepted the glass. “Boss decided to give everybody the day off and let the new guests shift fer themselves.”

  “That flock of civvies?” Dar managed mild interest. “Where they in from, anyway?”

  “Terra, 'seems.” Corve took a gulp or two. “Their boss claims he's the new governor.”

  “New governor?” Dar frowned. “What for? We've got Shacklar!”

  “And we'd best find a way to keep him, from the looks of this one.”

  “Now, Corve, that's not fer you to say,” Cholly reproved him. “You just holds the door at the hotel.”

  “Ayuh, but I'm not on duty now.” Corve turned to Dar. “It's name's Bhelabher, an' its brain's in its mouth.”

  “Just what we need to consolidate Wolman relations,” Dar said dryly. “Is he the new gov?”

  “Dunno; he can't find his papers.” Corve grinned wolfishly. “Hadn't but scarcely found his rooms when he let out a roar like a ship trying to land without jets; I swear he shook the whole hotel.”

  Dar looked up at Cholly. “Kind of an explosion, huh? Or a cannon? The chemical kind, I mean.”

  “Heard him all the way down here, eh? Well, can't say as I'm surprised. I thought of luggage-bombs, myself. But no, he came storming back into the lobby with his whole flock at his heels. ‘There's thieves in this hotel!' he cries. ‘They've rifled all our luggage!' Well, I don't doubt the boss was thinking of rifling him—but no, he kept his face polite, and says, ‘There are no guests in this hotel today but you and yours; and as for me and mine, why, I stayed here at the desk, the maid's having her batteries charged, and the staff's there by the door, ready to hold it for you.' Well, Bhelabher, he started up some deal of nonsense about how dumb it is to have a hotel with so small a staff to blame things on, but his top aide . . . face kinda like a rat . . .”

  “Fox,” Dar murmured.

  “. . . an' he—uh . . . say again?”

  “He coughed.” Sam kicked Dar in the ankle. “Please go on, sir.”

  “Yeah, well, the rat-faced one, he says, ‘Those people at the Customs Office, Honorable . . .' And Honorable, he hits his forehead with the heel of his hand—must do that a lot, I notice he's a little flat-headed—and says, ‘How obvious! No wonder I overlooked it! Why, of course there'd be corruption—riddled with it! Bureaucratic piracy, without a doubt!' And he starts for the door, thundering, ‘But how could they have known where to find the documents?' And the rat-faced one, he says, ‘Read our minds, no doubt,' and all the rest of them, they set to wailing about how unfair it was, to have mind readers all about, and how's a decent bureaucrat going to make a living if all his little secrets are known, and what evil people mind readers are. And Honorable, he says, ‘We must see the General immediately, and have those Customs people questioned,' and I pulled the door and they swirled on out, Bhelabher and his whole covey right behind him. And I closed the door and like to fell over, laughing so hard I thought I'd shake myself apart.”

  “No wonder.” Dar managed to chuckle himself. “Customs office? On a prison planet?”

  “And mind readers! Hoo!” Corve chortled. “Such a deal of nonsense! And these're educated?”

  “Wull, knowing facts can't cure stupidity,” Cholly mused, “and Shacklar's anything but stupid. I'd love to see what happens when they find him.”

  The door bonged, and a private stepped in, chuckling.

  “I think we're about to find out.” Dar turned to the new arrival. “Something go right, Cosca?”

  “All depends on which end you were on.” Cosca pulled himself up to a barstool. “Me, I was on the outside, listening in.”

  “Don't executives anywhere know better than to leave their intercoms open?” Sam demanded.

  “Just the other way around,” Dar corrected. “Sometimes they know better than to turn them off. What wasn't private, Cosca?”

  “A complaint, chiefly.” Cosca accepted his beet “Or maybe a challenge.”

  “I can guess the chief who made the complaint,” Corve grinned. “Who made the challenge?”

  “Same as the complainer—this Terran bigwig, Beelubber . . .”

  “Bhelabher,” Dar and Corve both corrected.

  “Who's telling this story, anyway? All right, Bhelabher. Honorable high huckster from Terra—he says. He comes sailing in without so much as a by-your-le
ave, roars, ‘Where's the governor?' and goes slamming into Shacklar's office afore a one of us could say a word. Matter of fact, we couldn't even hear ourselves, his gang was making so much noise, chattering about how telepaths was undermining the foundations of society. . . .”

  “Telepaths?” Dar frowned.

  “Mind readers,” Corve explained. “Gotta hand it to 'em—they keep to a line of thought. How'd the General take it, Cosca?”

  “Well, he was in conference at the time. . . .”

  “With his cat-o'-nine-tails, or a patient?”

  “Patient. As long as we can keep the troubled ones coming, it keeps him away from the cat. Analysis, it was—with Rogoure.”

  “Rogoure?” Dar stiffened. “Isn't he that private who almost chopped a Wolman in Monday's battle?”

  “The same. An' you know how Shacklar is—he wouldn't ask the man to leave his knife outside. Well, I'd guess that Rogoure's paranoid.”

  Dar started to grin.

  “And they were deep into his childhood when Bhelabher charged in?” Cholly guessed.

  “I'd say—but all I know is, Rogoure bellows, ‘They've come to get me!' and jumps up with that knife out. . . .”

  “Good reflexes,” Dar noted.

  Corve nodded. “He'd make a top-notch soldier. Well! I don't need to tell you. It got somewhat furry for a while there.”

  “Meaning Bhelabher was screaming, and Rogoure was shouting war cries, and Shacklar was trying to bellow them both into order?”

  “Something of the sort. Well, the General, he did manage to get Rogoure calmed down, and apologized for the interruption. ‘But you know how it is,' he says, ‘when one's involved in government. Any Johnny in the street thinks he's got the right to bust in to see you at all odd hours of the day and night.' ‘Well, I can comp that,' Rogoure, he answers. ‘I'd likely do the same if I felt I really had a gripe.' He'd made progress already, that one. ‘I hope you will,' says Shacklar. ‘Take it out on me, not on the Wolmen. Will you, Private?' ‘My word upon it, sir,' says Rogoure. ‘Next time I'm feeling homicidal, I'll come for you.' ‘Good chap!' says Shacklar. ‘But if you do stay calm, I'll see you at this time tomorrow?' ‘That you will, sir.' And Rogoure, he salutes. ‘Well enough,' says Shacklar, saluting back. ‘Dismissed!' And Rogoure clicks his heels, about-faces on the mark, and marches out.”

  “And this time last week, you couldn't've gotten him to come to parade rest.” Dar shook his head. “Shacklar's amazing.”

  “Bhelabher didn't think so. Rogoure was barely out before the Honorable pulled himself together enough to bellow, ‘What is this place—a lion's den?' ‘So it would seem,' says Shacklar, ‘when the folk who come don't even have the manners of a flea. I thought civilians still abided by the old quaint custom of requesting admittance when the door was closed.’ ”

  Even Sam smiled. “He sounds a little miffed.”

  “Oh, his tone was fresh dry ice! ‘That's a rather poor reception,' Bhelabher says, ‘for the new governor of this planet.' Well. I tell you, Shackler all but froze.”

  “I should think the news would've come as a bit of a shock, yes.”

  “Oh, the General's used to delusions of grandeur. You could almost see it going through his mind. ‘I understand a cargo ship came down today,' he says. Bhelabher nods. ‘Myself was on it, and my whole staff.' Well, if you knew the General, you could see he didn't think that ruled out aberrations. ‘You've come from Terra?' ‘We have,' says Bhelabher, ‘sent out by the BOA to take charge of this planet and rid it of corruption and of vice.' Shacklar, he sat down at his desk and made a note or two. ‘I assume you have got credentials to support your claim?' ‘I had,' Bhelabher says, like it was an accusation, ‘but the officials at your Customs Office confiscated not only the originals, but all the copies, too.”

  Corve chuckled.

  Cosca nodded. “I expect Shacklar thought so, too—but he didn't show it, of course. Bhelabher bellows, ‘You must find those scoundrels!' And Shacklar answers, ‘It would be rather surprising if we could. In fact, it's amazing that you managed to find our Customs Office, since we don't have one!' ‘Come, sir,” Bhelabher says. ‘Surely you at least know the departments of your own administration.' ‘I do,' says Shacklar, ‘and I tell you, there's no Customs Office. Where did you find it, by the way?' ‘Right at the spaceport,' says Bhelabher. ‘A small plastrete structure, about twenty feet square.' ‘One of the storage sheds,' Shacklar says, nodding. ‘What did it have by way of personnel?' ‘Two men and a woman,' answers Bhelabher. ‘Surely you know of them!' ‘I'm afraid not,' says Shacklar, 'though it shouldn't be too difficult discovering who the woman was; there're only about seventy of them in the settlement.' Well, then you could begin to hear it in Bhelabher's voice; he'd begun to figure it out for himself. ‘Do you imply that these personnel were not official?' ‘Not really,' says Shacklar. ‘I'm sure they appointed themselves properly before they took office.' Well, Bhelabher was quiet then, but his face turned a very interesting color. . . .”

  “Mauve,” Dar supplied.

  “Magenta,” Corve corrected.

  “Closer to maroon, I'd say. Then he explodes: ‘I have been deceived!' ‘I believe “conned” is the old term,' Shacklar agreed. ‘Certainly someone has played on your gullibility.' Bhelabher rumbles, ‘I don't quite think . . .' ‘Quite,' says Shacklar. ‘At any rate, this puts us both in a rather delicate position, Honorable.' Bhelabher says slowly, ‘Yes, I can understand that,' which I, for one, found surprising. ‘Your claims may be quite legitimate,' Shacklar goes on. ‘BOA may have sent you out here to assume the administration of this colony.' ‘Indeed they have!' snaps Bhelabher. ‘But you have no credentials to verify that statement,' Shacklar points out. ‘I have witnesses!' Bhelabher huffs. ‘My whole staff will testify in support of this robbery!' ‘I'm sure they will,' Shacklar says, and his voice was vermouth. ‘But you'll pardon me, Honorable, if I can not quite accept their testimony as totally impartial.' Bhelabher says nothing, and Shacklar gets gentle. ‘I'm sure you must see that I cannot cede administration of this colony to you merely on your say-so.' ‘But this is intolerable!' Bhelabher cries. ‘My appointment is totally legitimate!' which was more than I could say for himself. ‘As well it may be,' says Shacklar, getting hard again, ‘but it could also be a scheme of deception on a very large scale.' ‘Sir,' Bhelabher rumbles, ‘do I understand you to say that I am a confidence swindler?' ‘You do not,' Shacklar answers, ‘but since you wish to say it, you may. Certainly I must assume as much, since you lack proof of your claim.' ‘But this is intolerable,' Bhelabher explodes again, ‘Especially since it is far more likely that you, sir, are the schemer! You have absolute control of this settlement; how could a few of its inhabitants mount such a ruse without your consent, nay, your command? Is it not logical that you would so seek to maintain your own . . .' Well, sirs and madam, that's just about when the General turned 'round and slammed the door, and we had to content ourselves with what we could hear through the wall.”

  “Which was?” Corve demanded.

  “Oh, a deal of shouting and bellowing, and the odd low mutter from Shackler, but nothing you could make out in words. It slackened, though, got softer and softer, till we couldn't hear nothing at all. And that's just about when we thought to see if the General'd maybe been careless with his intercom again.”

  “You just checked it, of course.”

  “Of course; I doubt that we listened for a full thirty seconds.”

  Dar coughed delicately. “We, uh, certainly wouldn't want you to violate a confidence or anything, but . . .”

  “No fear. Not much we could violate, anyway; 'bout all we heard was, when we pressed the button, the Honorable saying, ‘. . . started when I was four. That's when my mother became involved with the amateur holovision programming club, you see, and of course it demanded a great deal of time. Our district child-care center was very nice, really, but most of the children were older than I was, and looking back on it, I see that they all must have been rathe
r disturbed. . . .' Shacklar murmured something sympathetic, but that's just about when the rat-faced aide noticed us and started saying something about telepaths' eavesdropping couldn't be avoided, but . . . Well, we decided the intercom was working, and switched it off.”

  “The ethical thing to do,” Dar agreed. “How long ago was that?”

  Cosca glanced at his ring. “ ‘Bout half an hour. I'd expect that by this time he's into the traumas of grade school.”

  “Ever Shacklar's way,” Cholly grinned. “ ‘If you can't beat 'em, analyze 'em.' What were his henchmen doing, Cosca?”

  “Oh, the usual—sitting around waiting, and bothering us for coffee, and wondering how the psi who'd swiped their credentials had known they was comin'. I mean, he'd've had to, wouldn't he, to've been able to set up a fake Customs Office in time to catch 'em comin' off the ferry?”

  “Makes sense,” Dar said judiciously. “Did they?”

  “Not a bit.” Cosca shook his head. “The rat-faced one, he said this proved there must be a conspiracy of psis, all the way from Terra to here, 'cause that was the only way word could've come out faster than an FTL starship could carry it—at the speed of thought, which he claimed to be faster than the speed of light. . . .”

  “Ridiculous,” Sam snorted.

  “Isn't it just? There's nothing so unbeatable as wanting to stay ignorant. But even Ratty wasn't about to believe one single telepath could hear thoughts on Terra from all the way out here on Wolmar; so, he claimed, there must've been a network of psis, each one relayin’ the message, till a telepath here picked it up and set up a reception for 'em. He didn't quite say Shacklar was a part of the conspiracy, and a telepath, too, but . . .”

  “But that's when you decided you'd best take a beer break and cool off under the collar, hey?” Cholly guessed.