_ Don glanced down at his textbook, then looked out the window. A blanket of dark clouds obscured the sky. Light rain filtered coldly down, to diffuse the greenery of the school grounds, turning the scene outside into a textured pattern of greens, dotted here and there with a reddish blur. To the west, the mist completely hid the distant mountains.
It would be cold outside--probably down around sixteen degrees or so. It had dropped to fifteen this morning, and unless the weather cleared up, there'd be no point in going up to the hills this weekend. The Korental and his clan would be huddled in their huts, waiting for warmer weather. A wild Ghar hunt would be the last thing they'd be interested in. Besides, the Gharu would be----
He jerked his attention back to the classroom. A student was reciting.
"... And ... uh, that way, everything was all mixed up with the taxes and the government couldn't get enough money. So King Weronar knew he'd have to get someone to help un ... straighten the taxes out, so he ... uh, well, Daniel Stern had been in the country for a couple of years, and he had ... well, sort of advised. So the king----"
Don looked out the window again.
With this weather, the ranch would be quiet. Hands would be all in the bunkhouses, crowding around the stoves. Oh, well, he and Dad could fool around down in the range. Since Mom had---- He jerked his head around to face the instructor.
Mr. Barnes was looking at him.
"Um-m-m, yes. That's good, Mara," he said. "Michaels, suppose you go on from there."
Don glanced across at the student who had just finished her recitation, but she merely gave him a blankly unfriendly stare. He looked back at the instructor.
"I lost the last few sentences," he admitted. "Sorry."
Barnes smiled sardonically. "Well, there's an honest admission," he said. "What's the last you picked up?"
Don shrugged resignedly.
"The appointment of Daniel Stern as Minister of Finance," he said. "That would be in eight twelve."
"You didn't miss too much." Barnes nodded. "You just got a little ahead. Take it from there."
"After a few months, the financial affairs of the kingdom began to improve," Don commenced.
"By the middle of eight thirteen, the tax reforms were in full effect. There was strong opposition to the elimination of the old system--both from the old nobility, who had profited by it, and from some of the colonists. But an Enforcement Corps was formed to see that the new taxes were properly administered and promptly paid. And the kingdom became financially stable." He paused.
Actually, he realized with a start, it had been Stern who had founded and trained the Enforcement Corps--first to enforce the revenue taxes, and later as a sort of national police force. And it had always been Stern who had controlled the Enforcement Corps. It was almost a private army, in fact. Maybe Pete---- He continued his recitation.
"Then Prime Minister Delon died rather ... rather suddenly, and the king appointed Mr. Stern to the vacancy. And when King Weronar himself died a little more than four years ago, Prime Minister Stern was acclaimed as prince regent." Don paused thoughtfully.
* * * * *
Delon's death had been sudden--and a little suspicious. But no one had questioned Stern or any of his people about it. And the death of the king and queen themselves--now there was.... Again, he got back to his recitation.
"There was opposition to Mr. Stern's confirmation as Regent, of course, since he was a galactic and not native to the planet. But he was the prime minister, and therefore the logical person to take the reins." He frowned.
"The claims to the throne were--and still are--pretty muddled. No one of the claimants supported by the major tribes is clearly first in line for the throne, and no compromise has been reached." The frown deepened.
"Traditionally," he went on, "the Star Throne should never be vacant for more than five years. So we can expect to see a full conclave of the tribes within a few months, to choose among the claimants and select one to be either head of the clan Onar, or the founder of a new royal line."
Barnes nodded. "Yes, that's fairly clear. But we must remember, of course, that the tradition you mention is no truly binding law or custom. It's merely a superstitious belief, held to by some of the older people, and based on ... well----" He smiled faintly.
"Actually, under the present circumstances, with no claimant clearly in line, and with the heraldic branch still sifting records, it is far more practical and sensible to recognize the need for a continued regency." He took a step back and propped himself against his desk.
"In any event, most of the claimants of record are too young for independent rule, so the regency will be forced to carry on for some time."
He looked for a fleeting instant at the inconspicuous monitor speaker on the wall.
"As matters stand now, the tribes might find it impossible to decide on any of the claimants. As you said, there is no truly clear line. King Weronar died childless, you remember, and his queen didn't designate a foster son." He shrugged.
"Well, we shall see," he added. "Now, suppose we go back a little, Michaels. You said there was some opposition from the colonists to the tax reforms of eight twelve. Can you go a little more into detail on that?"
Don touched his face. He'd been afraid of that. Somehow, neither the book nor the lectures really jibed with some of the things he'd heard his father talk about. Something about the whole situation just didn't make full sense. He shrugged mentally. Well....
The door opened and a student runner came into the room. Don watched him walk up to Mr. Barnes with some relief. Maybe, after the interruption, someone else would be picked to carry on.
The youngster came to the desk and handed a slip to the instructor, who read it, then looked up.
"Michaels," he said, "you seem to have some business at the self-government office. You may be excused to take care of it."
* * * * *
Al Wells looked up as Don entered the office.
"What's the---- Oh, Michaels. Got some questions for you on that row you stopped in the locker room yesterday."
"Oh? I thought my write-up was pretty clear. What's up?"
The self-government chairman leaned back.
"You said this Gerry Kelton banged into this kid, Waern, started pushing him around, and struck him once. That right?"
Don nodded. "That's about what happened, yes."
"And there was no provocation?"
"None that I saw."
"And you saw the whole affair?"
"Everything that happened in the locker room. Yes."
"Uh huh. And you said that two guys, Walt Kelton and Maurie VanSickle, pinned this kid's arms while Gerry started to slug him. That it?"
Don smiled. "He only got in one slap before I mixed in," he said. "Had his fist all cocked for more, though."
Wells nodded, looking curiously at Don.
"But they quit and turned the kid loose when you told them to?"
"That's right."
"Didn't give you any trouble?"
"No." Don shook his head. "Just some talk. Gave their names and class numbers. Oh, yeah, they squawked a little, sure. Then they took off for class."
Wells looked at Michaels appraisingly.
"Know anything about this Gerry Kelton?"
Don shook his head. "Heard a rumor or so last night," he admitted. "Never heard of him before then."
Wells laughed shortly. "We have. He's only got one year in this school, but we've had him in here several times. Know him pretty well by now. He got set back quite a bit in Primary, so he's some older than most of the Lower School bunch." He waved a hand.
"Oh, he's a brawler. We know that. But he doesn't start fights. He finishes them."
"He started this one."
"That right? And he quit when you told him to?"
"He did."
"Oh, no. That's not the Kelton. Last guy tried to stop him was out of classes for three days. Took five guys to bring Kelton in here." Wells shook his head.
"Look, we got him in here and he told us his story. The other two came up with the same thing later. Makes sense, too--if you know Kelton. It seems he and his brother ran into this kid, Waern, outside the auditorium right after Aud Call. They were talking about the newscast. And this kid came up and started an argument. Tried to slap Walt. They pushed him off and went on their way. VanSickle went with them. He'd been in the crowd." Wells leaned forward.
"Got four witnesses to that, too, beside the three of them."
Don moved his head indifferently. "I wouldn't know about that. I wasn't there. All I know is what I saw in the locker room."
"Yeah. Yeah, sure. Then, they say they went on down to the locker room, after talking to some other students. When they got there, the Waern kid came flying at them again. Tried to bite and kick. They say you helped Maurie pull him off Gerry, and told 'em you'd take it from there. So they went on to class. They can't figure out where you got the idea of writing them up over it. Didn't know they'd been written up till we sent some guys up and pulled them out of their classes." Wells flipped his hands out, palms upward.
"So there's their story. How about it?"
Don shook his head. "Pretty well worked out. Fits the situation, too. Only one trouble. There's almost no truth in it. Pete Waern made no effort to hit any of those three while I was watching. And I didn't touch any of the four myself."
Wells laughed shortly. "That's what you're telling me. I've got a batch of statements telling the other story."
Don looked at the other for a moment. "Now wait a minute," he said slowly. "Are you trying to tell me what I saw and did?"
Wells shook his head. "Just trying to fill you in. This isn't my problem any more. Dr. Rayson's picked it up. Wants to see you. He's got Mr. Masterson with him and they're waiting for you to show up so they can talk things over with you." He tilted his head.
"I don't know. I've heard about some funny things these Khlorisanu can pull off if they can get a guy's attention for a while. And that kid's the real thing--from way back. Better think things over a little, maybe. See if you can remember any dizzy spells or anything."
"Oh, now check your synchs, Wells." Don waggled his head disgustedly. "I've heard those yarns too--down here. Look. All my life, I've been living on a ranch out in the mountains. Got Khlorisanu all over the place. They work for us up there." He grinned.
"Isn't a thing they can do that you and I can't do, too. They've got no special powers, believe me. I know."
"You'd find it pretty hard to tell that one to Doc Rayson and make it stick," Wells told him. "And he's the guy you've got to talk to." He reached into a basket on his desk and took out a stack of papers.
"Look, I've told you more'n I was supposed to all ready. Suppose you go over and talk to them for a while. They're waiting for you over in room Five."
Don looked at him for a moment, then went out.
* * * * *
He swung about and examined the closed door thoughtfully, then massaged the back of his neck.
"What's wrong with these people?" he asked himself. "Don't they know how to break down a rigged story? Or can't they recognize one when they hear it?"
He crossed the hall.
"I'm Donald Michaels," he told the secretary. "I believe Dr. Rayson wants to see me."
The woman looked at him curiously.
"Oh, yes," she said. "Just a minute."
She got up and went into an inner room. After a moment, she came out and reclaimed her seat behind her desk.
"He's busy right now," she said. "I'll let you know when you can go in."
Don shrugged and sat down in one of the chairs that lined the wall. It wasn't a very comfortable chair.
"The anxious seat," he growled to himself. "Nice, time-tested trick."
There was no reading material at hand, and the walls of the oddly shaped room were blank. He amused himself by directing a blank stare toward the secretary. After a few minutes, she looked up from her work and jerked her head indignantly.
"Stop that," she ordered.
"Stop what?" Don looked innocent.
"Stop staring at me like that."
"Not staring at you," he told her. "I have to look somewhere and the chair faces your way. That's all."
The woman moved her hands. "Well, then face some other way."
"But I'd have to move the chair, and that would disturb your arrangements," Don told her reasonably. He continued his blank stare.
The woman resumed her work, then twitched her shoulders and looked at him resentfully for a few seconds. Finally, she got up and went to the inner office again. Don waited.
Again, she came out.
"They'll see you now," she said.
Don got up.
"Thank you."
He went through the door.
To his right, a man sat behind a wide, highly polished desk. The other was across the room, at a smaller desk. Both looked up as the door opened.
The man to Don's right nodded pleasantly.
"Well, so you're Donald Michaels? I'm Dr. Rayson."
"Yes, sir."
"That's good. Sit down." Rayson waved. "Right over there." He smiled confidently.
"Ah, that's fine. I'm the school psychologist, you know. You have met Mr. Masterson, the self-government faculty advisor, of course?"
Don nodded. "Of course. I'm in one of his classes."
"Well, that's good. Now, how do you feel this morning?"
"Quite well, thank you, sir."
"Well, then, we can talk about that little affair in the locker room, can't we? Your memory is clear on it by now, isn't it?"
Don nodded.
"Well, that's fine. Now, suppose you give us the whole story. Don't leave out a thing. Then, we'll see what we can do for you."
Don smiled thinly, then flicked out a finger.
"I think that paper on your desk, sir, is the report I wrote last night. It's complete as it stands."
* * * * *
Masterson broke in, frowning. "We don't mean that thing," he said coldly. "What we want is a true, complete account of what actually happened."
Don faced him, his face tightening a little.
"Dr. Rayson has just that, sir," he said. "On his desk. I wrote it. I signed it."
Rayson raised a hand slightly.
"Just a moment," he said reprovingly. "There's no need for excitement or anger here. We're simply looking for a full, correct account." He cleared his throat. "Perhaps it would be well for me to make things clearer to you. Then, you'll recognize the problem." He looked down at the paper on the desk.
"You see, Donald," he continued, "we have already talked to a number of other students about this. And we have a complete account of the incident in so far as it concerned Petoen Waern." He smiled indulgently.
"What we are now concerned about is your own well-being. We need to know something of what happened to you after you were alone with the Waern boy." He spread his hands, then held them out, palms up.
"As to the actual physical action, that's quite simple. You see, there were a number of witnesses to the affair, and most of them have come forward." He rubbed his hands together, then laid them on the desk.
"So, we know precisely what happened that far.
"And we have a pretty good idea of what happened to you later, of course. This sort of thing has happened before. But by this time, you should have had time to recover to a great extent. At least, you should remember things much more clearly than you did when you wrote this report last night." He touched the paper with a smile.
"And with a little prompting and information, you should be able to fully recover your memory."
The smile became sympathetic. "Of course, I can understand your present confusion and your complete disbelief in your change of orientation. And I know it's quite an effort for a young man to admit he's been ... well ... shall we say influenced? But believe me, it's no disgrace. It's happened to quite a few others before you." He nodded thoughtfully.
"In fact, we are beginning to believe this Petoen Waern, like his uncle, is something of an adept at this sort of thing."
Don looked at him steadily.
"Do I act as though I were in a trance, sir?"
"Oh no. No, of course not. This sort of thing doesn't result in such a manifestation. This is something much more subtle than mere, gross hypnotism." Rayson smiled.
"However, you've had all night to partially recover. And these things seldom are fully effective for more than a few hours--unless the operator can get to his victim again, to fully fix the impression he has created."
Rayson placed the palms of his hands together. "No, by this time, one would expect your memories to be somewhat confused. So we can apply therapeutic methods." He nodded.
"Now go ahead. Try running through the whole story. Perhaps we can get a clue as to his methods. And if you have any ill effects remaining, I think they can be quite easily eliminated. Now, suppose you start with the time immediately after young Waern's attack on the Kelton boy."
* * * * *
Don shook his head wearily. "There was no such attack," he said. "It was the other way around. A large sized chap who later gave his name to me as Gerry Kelton, slapped a smaller fellow named Waern. At the time, two other fellows were holding Waern's arms. Rather tightly, too."
Masterson interrupted, shaking his head disgustedly. "We've got plenty of statements from witnesses. That isn't the way they read. Now how about it?"
"You mean the two Keltons and VanSickle?"
"No." Masterson was definite. "No. I don't mean them. There were several students around the doorway into that locker room during that entire show. We got stories from most of them." He waved a hand decisively.
"Now suppose you start using your head. Get busy and give us the thing the way it really happened. Then, we'll see what to do about you."
Don shook his head. "The locker room and the hall were empty for at least a full minute before those three came in," he said. "If you go over the people that signed those statements, you'll probably find that they were somewhere else at the time." He grinned.
"And from what I hear, this might give you an idea as to the membership of the Hunters, too."
"Hunters!" Masterson looked completely disgusted. "We've checked out a hundred crazy rumors about that alleged gang. Nothing there."
"Maybe so." Don looked at him critically. "But Jack Bordelle certainly sounded convinced last night. And how about Pete Waern? Didn't he tell you his side of this thing?"
"Ah yes, Waern." Dr. Rayson chuckled. "I believe these 'Hunters' are an invention of his uncle's. No, that young man didn't come in. His father is too smart for that. We won't see that young man again, unless we can have him brought in for this bit of work he did on you."
Don turned his head to stare across the desk.
Rayson smiled knowingly. "Oh, yes. Jasu Waern called early this morning. He said he was withdrawing Petoen from school. Said he planned to send him to a private school where he wouldn't be subject to indignities." He chuckled again.
"Jasu Waern is altogether too smart a man to let us question that youngster of his if he can prevent it." He looked searchingly at Don.
"You know," he added musingly, "I'm beginning to wonder about you, though. This might be serious. Possibly this Waern boy was more thorough than we thought possible. Possibly permanent damage could have been done." He got to his feet.
"Suppose you go over to that couch there and lie down. We'll try a little therapy, and see what we can do for you."
Michaels looked at him indignantly.
"I'm getting a little tired of all these tales about mental influence by the Khlorisanu. They're pure myth and I know it. I've lived all my life among these people. Believe me, if there were any such thing, my father or I would have come across it before now. And we'd know about it."
"You are then, ah, presenting yourself as an authority on parapsychology, perhaps?" Rayson pursed his lips. "This is a great accomplishment for one so young."
"I'm not an authority on anything." Don shook his head. "All I know is that I'd find it out right away if anyone tried anything like that on me. No one has--at least no Khlorisana has."
Rayson shook his head reprovingly. "Now, you say you have lived all your life among these people? Perhaps, then, you have been under----"
* * * * *
"Just a minute!" Masterson broke in sharply. "What's this about Jack Bordelle? He's your relief, isn't he, Michaels?"
"That's right." Don shrugged, then repeated his conversation with Bordelle. He smiled wryly as he finished.
"I'll have to admit," he added, "I did walk over and spend a few seconds checking the incinerator, at that. But ... oh, well." He waved at the paper on Rayson's desk.
"And you didn't put that in your report?"
"No, sir. I didn't think there was any place for it there."
"Why not?"
"It wasn't material to the case in hand, sir. There was no evidence in Jack's comments. He made no threats or offers. And as far as I could tell, he was merely a disinterested person concerned in my welfare. Even though he seemed to believe what he was saying, it's pure hearsay."
"Hearsay!" Masterson snorted. "Pure invention." He leaned forward.
"Look," he said sharply, "we've been pretty patient with you. We've given you the benefit of every doubt we could think of. And we're getting to the time-wasting stage." He waved a hand sharply across in front of his body.
"Now, I'd like to get some truth out of you. You've told us a little truth already. I believe you when you say you weren't subjected to any mental influence. I think the influence was very material indeed--in nice, purple ink--and it seems to have been pretty effective. How much was it?"
"How much?" Don frowned. "I wish you'd make yourself clear on that. What are you trying to say?"
"Just what you think I said," snapped Masterson. "How much did that youngster offer you to write up that incident the way you did? And have you the cash in hand yet?"
Don looked at the man carefully, noting the details of his appearance. Finally, he shook his head.
"Mr. Masterson," he said slowly, "up to now, I've always thought you were a good instructor and a fine advisor. I've sat in your classes, and I even developed a lot of respect for you. All at once, you've shown me how wrong I could be." He held up a hand.
"Be quiet," he said sharply, "both of you. And listen carefully. I want to make myself fully understood. I want to drive one thought into your stupid heads. You're in the wrong part of the galaxy for such remarks as that one you just made." He touched the corner of his mouth, then looked at his fingers.
"You see, this is at the edge of the Morek. There are Moreku here, in this school. And some day, you might talk to one of them." He smiled thinly.
"I am the only son of a border rancher, Mr. Masterson. We have a few thousand square kilos up in the Morek area, in the hills. And I have worked and played with mountain tribesmen all my life." He drew a long breath.
"Had a few fights with some of them, too. And some of their customs and a lot of their moral values rubbed off on me, I guess, though I've never been adopted into any clan.
"You just made a remark that is the absolute last word in insults up in the Morek. Nothing you could do or say could be worse. And there are, as I said, others from that area right here, in this school. Real clan members." He laughed shortly.
"Mister, what you said was, 'you sell yourself.'" He reached up to his lapel, twisting at the bronze button.
"If you should say that to a tribesman, your life would be over. Right then, unless you were very quick. And if you should be quick enough, or lucky enough, to kill the man you insulted, his clan brothers would take it up. It would be either you--or the whole tribe." He stood up.
"I'm not a tribesman. I don't carry the sling, and I'm of galactic ancestry, so I don't have a compulsion toward blood vengeance. But I don't accept that insult. I shall go back to the Morek today and place you out of my mind." He paused.
"No, I won't kill you. I'll simply warn you so you'll have no excuse for such idiocy again." He smiled.
"You know, Mr. Masterson, I don't know how much they pay you by the year to sit around here, but I doubt that it's as much as I pay my beaters for a week end of hunting. So obviously, even if I were for sale, the man who could afford the tab could pick you up with his small change." He paused thoughtfully.
"Come to think of it, if your annual pay is more than my beaters get, I'll have to raise their wages. They do their job--intelligently."
He turned, then swung back for an instant. The bronze button had come out of his lapel. He tossed it on Masterson's desk.
"Here," he said. "A present for you. I can't stand the smell of it." _