_ Korentona looked up as the small procession entered his office.
"What's happened now?"
Don nodded at him, then faced the man with the pack.
"Put that pack down," he commanded. "Now, stand over there." He pointed. "And be very quiet." He glanced at the doorman.
"You can stay where you are." He looked at Korentona.
"My apologies," he said, "for being so informal. But I come from the Kor-en, and I had a little trouble. There's a message for you in the pack. You know, of course, where to find it. Who are these two?"
Korentona looked worried. "This one," he pointed at the doorman, "is a trusted employee. He's been with me for years."
He paused, looking at the other man. "But this one, I have never trusted. I'm sure he reports to the police."
Don glanced at the doorman. "My apologies," he said. "You are free to go as you will." He looked closely at the other.
"Is this correct?" he demanded. "Are you a police agent?"
The man nodded. "That's right," he said reluctantly. "I'm supposed to watch this place and report on its visitors."
"Here," Don told him, "is one visitor you won't report." He stopped, considering, then impaled the man with a cold stare.
"Have you ever seen a man bitten by a gersal?"
The man shrugged. "Yeah. What about it?"
Don nodded. "You will remember that scene," he said. "Do you remember that man's struggles? Do you remember the animal, chewing at him, injecting its poison? Do you remember this man dropping, first to his knees, then to his back? Do you remember----"
"Hey!" protested the other. His hands came up before his face.
"Put those hands down," snapped Don. "And listen closely. I want you to have full recall on this. You remember this man who was bitten, how he sobbed for breath--how his legs stretched out and his back arched, till the muscles tore from the bones with their effort. You remember all this?"
The man nodded wordlessly, his fascinated stare fixed on Don's face.
"Then I want you to fix this in your mind," Don told him. "Should you be so unwise as to attempt to mention any of these things that have happened since you came down those stairs--should you even allow your memory to dwell on these things for too long--these are the things that will happen to you.
"You will sink to your knees. Your muscles will be unable to support you, and you will fall to your back. You will find it impossible to breathe, for the muscles of your chest will distend the ribs. And in your struggles, you will break bones. And you will tear your body to bits. Do you understand this?"
The man sagged against the wall, panting. He managed a nod.
"Then forget about this afternoon," commanded Don. "Go about your business in normal fashion. And forget about this afternoon. Nothing happened that was worthy of note." He waved a hand in dismissal, then turned to Korentona.
"I don't want to go into a lot of detail," he said. "As I said, there's a detailed message in the pack. I'll wait for you to read it." He glanced down at his clothing.
"I'd like a place, though, where I can clean up. And I could use some other clothes, if you don't mind."
* * * * *
When he came back to the office, Korentona waved him to a chair.
"So," he said musingly, "they were right. You did go to the clans for aid." He smiled.
"The police have been keeping close watch on everyone in the city who might have even a remote connection with the hill clans. And they're really keeping an eye on the Waern home. You're going to have a nice time getting in there."
Don nodded. "I expected some trouble. Do you know whether they've done any searching?"
Korentona shrugged. "I don't run an investigative agency," he said with a smile, "so I don't know everything that's going on. But I've heard there've been lights on up there nearly every night. And they've had crowds of people around the place. Not so much activity the last couple of days, though. They're just watching."
"I see," Don nodded. "Wonder if they've found what they were looking for?"
The other shook his head, "Doubt it," he said. "If they had, they'd relax. Now that I know what it's all about, I can figure out what I've heard. They'll take off the watch as soon as they find that book, I think.
"Oh, of course, they still want you," he added. "And they'd like to get their hands on the Waernu. But they wouldn't be frantic about it if they weren't worried about the outcome of a conclave."
"No," agreed Don. "I guess they wouldn't, at that."
He stretched. "Well, guess I'd better get on my way. I've got to get into that house somehow. Think I'll take a wander out there and see if I can get some ideas."
The merchant put up a detaining hand. "Take it slow," he advised. "You can't go up there tonight."
"Oh?"
"No. It wouldn't be wise at all. There are a bunch of young fellows that have been hanging around there lately. It isn't safe to walk around that neighborhood. They've beaten five or six people pretty badly. And they've killed a couple." Korentona paused.
"Funny," he added. "The police don't seem to be so upset about that."
"They wouldn't be," Don told him.
"So you think I'd better wait till morning?"
"It'll be a lot better. I can give you a place to stay tonight. And my house isn't too far from the Waern place, so you can get over there in a hurry if you want to." Korentona paused.
"Say, how about that fellow, Foree? Are you sure he'll keep quiet?"
Don smiled. "Pretty certain. Of course, I don't know whether an effort to talk would actually kill him. But he'd be pretty uncomfortable for a while. Might even come up with shock amnesia." The smile broadened.
"He may have already done enough careless thinking by this time to make him pretty sick." He regarded Korentona thoughtfully.
"You say there's a gang of young fellows hanging around the Waern neighborhood?"
The merchant nodded. "Quite a few of them, I think. People living around there don't spend any time on the street or in the park, you can be sure of that."
"I see." Don nodded slowly. "That way, it's a lot easier to watch the Waern place at night. Look, there must be quite a few hillmen in this city. I should think you'd know quite a number of them."
"Yes, I do, of course." Korentona smiled. "We don't exactly form a closed group, but ... well, I'll have to admit we do think a little differently from the plainsmen."
"I know." Don reached into his jacket and slowly withdrew a stick with a thong wrapped around it.
"Many of your friends carry these?"
The merchant laughed. "Certainly!" He produced a polished stick of his own.
"Can you imagine any clansman without this sling?"
Don looked at him speculatively. "I wonder," he said casually, "what would happen if these young toughs found themselves being hunted down by ... say ten or fifteen blood hungry clansmen. Might worry them a little, wouldn't you think?"
Korentona shook his head doubtfully. "You know what the situation is here in Riandar," he remarked. "The police don't worry too much about these robberies and beatings. But they'd be pretty perturbed if someone started hunting the hunters."
"That's what I mean." Don spread his hands. "Might even get the people watching the Waern place upset and nervous." He shrugged. "And who's to know what caused the uproar, or who's involved? After all, all the clansmen were at home. The watchers on their houses could testify to that."
Korentona looked at him curiously. "Interesting idea, at that, you know." He got to his feet. "Suppose we talk it over for a while."
* * * * *
Maurie VanSickle crouched behind a bush, watching the path. This, he thought, was getting old. It had been a lot of fun at first. Profitable, too. He thought with amusement of the old man who had scrambled about in the dirt that first night. Boy, what a beat jerk he'd been. And what a beautiful job Gerry had done on him. Clipped the stupid yokel so hard he didn't make a sound when he went down.
Then he and Walt had come in. Man, how the old guy had wriggled! He looked down the path.
Now, though? Phooey! Not a lousy person on the path all evening. He'd tried to tell Gerry they were on a loser. Park was all worked out for a few weeks. But the stubborn clown wouldn't listen. Kept insisting they try it a couple more nights. Maurie reached into his pocket.
"Better make a strike pretty soon," he muttered to himself. "The old cash bag's getting empty." He stretched, then tensed. There were footsteps on the path.
This one was his!
Silently, he gathered himself. He'd clip the guy from behind, then Gerry and Walt could come in from the other side and pin him down.
"Hope the jerk's got plenty of that stuff," he muttered.
The stroller came closer. Maurie appraised him as he walked. Oh, boy, another little, old guy. Clothes looked pretty good, too. Nice stack of cloth. Should be quite a rack of the purple in them.
Now the man was almost close enough. Maurie's eyes followed him as he approached, then passed. He launched himself in a crouching dash.
As he left the shelter of the bush, something bumped against his neck. He found himself whirling to the ground. Dimly, he saw his intended victim whirl around. He attempted to dodge the foot as it came down on his face, but it was like moving in a dream. Somehow, he was too slow.
For just an instant, he felt crushing pain, then the world dissolved into bright specks in a spreading blackness. One by one, the points of light winked out. And then, there was nothing.
As their intended victim whirled to crush Maurie, Gerry Kelton poked at his brother.
"Come on," he urged. "He can't take two of us. Let's go."
The two dashed out of their cover, then found themselves prostrate at the edge of the path.
Walt Kelton was flipped over and held in a vicelike grip, his head grinding into the path. Close by, he could see his brother. Two men held him down. As he watched, they seized Gerry's hands, twisting them so that his head flopped face up.
A third man leaned over, a long knife in his hand. Unbelievingly, Walt watched as the man thrust the knife into Gerry's throat. The boy's feet kicked convulsively a couple of times, then dropped. The toes sank, to point outward.
With calm precision, the killer turned his knife and forced it across the throat with the heel of his hand. Dark fluid welled out on the path, making a pool which flowed toward Walt.
Casually, the man pulled the slack of Gerry's shirt toward him and wiped the blade till it was gleaming again. Then he looked toward Walt. He got to his feet.
For an instant, the boy lay limp, paralyzed with terror. Then, he kicked and struggled madly. Unbelievingly, he felt the hands which restrained him loosen and he kicked and squirmed until he was free to scramble away.
He skittered on all fours till he reached the middle of the path.
Then he struggled to his feet.
And ran.
* * * * *
Don Michaels flipped on the light in the vault and looked around him. Yes, it was just as Jasu Waern had said it would be. He walked over to the closet at the side of the room and pulled out a towel. As he dried himself, he continued his examination of the room.
It had been easier to get in than he had hoped. When that screaming kid had come dashing along, it had been like a stick in an ant hill. Everyone around the house had been shaken up. Several men had gone streaking over to the park. The others had given the incident their full attention.
And all Don had needed do was walk up to the front door and go in.
"Guess they thought they had a full-scale revolution on their hands," he told himself. "Wonder how many Hunters the Moreku nailed." He grinned.
The men Korentona had talked to had jumped at the plan like starving gersals. Several of them had been victimized in the past. They really wanted blood. The others saw a good hunt in the offing. Every one of them knew someone who had been robbed. He'd turned something loose, all right.
"Hope they don't get too enthusiastic about it," he said. "Hate to have 'em make a habit of that sort of thing." He shrugged.
"Oh, well, let's see where that book is."
The sides of the room were lined with books. Over in a corner was a reading table with writing materials and a conveniently placed light. Don walked over to a glass-fronted bookcase and opened it, studying the titles of the volumes within. Finally, he selected a book and carried it over to the reading table.
He leafed through the volume, noting the careful engrossing. Then he paused as he came to the pages he was searching for. He examined the ornate script closely, then looked at the intricate stamp. It was the signature stamp of the old king. Beside it was his queen's less pretentious stamp. Don nodded in satisfaction.
Now, the only problem was to wrap the book safely in the waterproof tissue he'd brought with him, and get it out of the house. He stood, looking at the door.
It might not be too safe to leave the book with Korentona, as had been originally planned. With the clansmen under surveillance as they had been, and now, with this additional disturbance, there could be a disastrous slip. Don shook his head.
Somehow, the idea of carrying this document in a peddler's pack didn't make too much sense, either. Too many things could go wrong. He sat back in the chair and stuck his legs out.
"Well," he told himself, "I can't stay here for the rest of my life. I'll have to do something." He grinned ruefully.
"The best defense," he quoted, "is a determined and well-directed offense. So, if you don't know what to do, do anything. Then you'll find out what to do next."
He snapped the light out and opened the door. At the edge of the water lock, he breathed deeply a few times. Then he plunged in, closed the underwater door, and swam rapidly toward the surface of the garden pool.
* * * * *
He climbed out of the water, strode forward a few steps, then stopped in consternation. The place was suddenly flooded with light.
An oily voice sounded in his ears.
"Just stand still, young fella. That way, you don't get hurt. Not right away, anyhow."
Don turned. At the side of the garden, stood a scrawny old man, his seamed face wrinkled into a sardonic smile. In his hand, he held a small weapon.
Don recognized it--a khroal. The weapon could put out vibration which would tear any target to tiny, singing fragments in a few microseconds. It was a complete anomaly which had been in the possession of the Khlorisanu for measureless time. Its origin was mystery, its exact principle of operation a puzzle. But it was easy to duplicate, and it was one of the most deadly hand weapons known.
He held his hands out.
"Put that thing away," he snapped coldly. "Get it down--quick!"
The older man's smile broadened into happy amusement.
"Oh, funny stuff, eh?" he said joyfully. "I kinda hoped you'd be the one they'd send. Yeah, I kinda wanted to see you--what you look like, eh?" He waved the weapon.
"Just stand still, young fella, so old Jake can get a good look at you. Hey, you look like one of these here natives." The man bobbed his head.
"Woulda fooled me, you know?" He looked reproachful.
"Only, a smart young fella like you, you oughta know better than go and get that Foree so worried. You know, that fella, he comes in every night--got a lot of things he wants to talk about. Got theories. Got plans. Real eager fella. Only tonight, he ain't got nothing. Just grunts.
"Nothing goes on today, he says." Jake shook his head reproachfully.
"You know, that was careless. You shoulda let him talk anyhow a little, see. Something like that happens, old Jake, he gets ideas. So I come out here, to see who comes along." He looked at the package under Don's arm.
"That the book we're all looking for?" He jerked his head toward a door.
"Yeah, guess it is. Come on, young fella, that funny stuff, it don't work so good with old Jake, see? So let's you and me take a nice little ride. What ya say?"
The khroal remained steadily pointed at its target.
Don hesitated. This was about as far from good as it could get, he thought. Now who was this? Where did he fit into the situation?
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"Oh, I don't mind telling you that. Name's Jake. Jake Gorham. But come on. Let's get on our way. We got a nice, long ride, you and me, see?" Gorham waved his weapon again.
"Come on," he repeated. "Nice young fella like you, he don't wanna get all scattered around. Shame to mess up this nice pretty little garden, you know?"
Don hesitated. Of course, he might be able to dive into the pool again. But the khroal could kick out a cone several feet deep. There was no escape that way. No way out of the pool, anyway--except through this garden. He moved in the indicated direction.
* * * * *
Gorham herded him to the courtyard and closed the door. The house lights filtered through curtains, to show the outline of a flier in the middle of the court. Gorham urged him toward it.
"All right, young fella," he said, "just stand real quiet for a minute. I'll get this thing unlocked and start them synchronizer things." He reached toward the door, then paused.
"Yeah, I been kinda wondering about you," he added conversationally. "See, I got a smart young fella down there in Oreladar. He's got people pretty well trained down there by now. Chap named Stern. You hear of him, maybe?" He chuckled.
"Kinda set him up in business here a few years back, and he's doing pretty well. Old Jake just hasta hang around--kinda look after things now and then, this boy shouldn't get in too much trouble, see?" He cleared his throat.
"See, this Danny, he ain't got too much in the brains department. And he don't do so good when people get violent. Might say he sorta scares easy sometimes. Now you, I'd say you were a little different, see? Ya know, I just might be able to use a real smart young fella like you." He flipped the khroal up and down negligently.
"Now, don't go making up no mind yet. Like I say, we got time. We have a nice, long talk on the way to Oreladar. Maybe we work something out, eh? You know, old Jake, he ain't such a bad guy. You ask Danny. He'll tell you. We could get along real nice, the three of us." He paused, considering.
"Oh, maybe you don't like the idea at first," he added. "But we got all kinds ways to persuade people.
"Got a fella, name's Masterson, down there right now. Danny tries, but he can't do nothing with him. But he'll come around. You give us a few more days--a week, maybe, he's going to be a real reasonable fella." He pulled the flier door open.
"We're getting this country organized, see? One of these days, some fella's been smart and got in at the right time, he's going to be quite a guy. Have just about anything he wants, see?" He reached into the flier and snapped switches. A muted humming sounded through the courtyard.
"Tell you, though, Kid. Maybe old Jake's not real trusting like he oughta be. Not just yet a while. Suppose you just turn your back to me for a minute, eh?"
Don turned slowly, straining his ears.
He could hear the faint sibilance of Gorham's clothing as the man approached. Then the sound stopped. There was a slight grating noise.
Obviously, then, the man was lifting an arm and shifting his weight.
Don dropped suddenly to the ground, whirling as he went down. He seized Gorham's legs, lifted, then dashed the man's body to the ground. Swiftly following up, he seized the gun hand and twisted violently.
Jolted by the sudden fall, Gorham was quiet for a fraction of a second. Then he burst into explosive action, trying to tear himself free from Don's restraining grip. He twisted and tried to kick himself free, then groaned as the twisting pressure ripped at elbow and shoulder tendons. The khroal rattled on the stones.
Abruptly, Don jerked the tortured arm around and pinned it beneath a leg. He placed a hand on Gorham's throat and reached for the other arm.
"Aw," whispered Gorham agonizedly, "aw, take it easy, will you? I got the idea all right. So let me up, we do things your way, huh?" He looked anxiously at the face which stared down a few inches from his own.
Don saw the pleading expression on the man's face. For a heartbeat, he started to relax the pressure on the throat.
Then he remembered another pleading pair of eyes that had looked at him. The gersal, he remembered, had been just as helpless under his stick as this man was now under his hands. But given the slightest chance, it would have had its teeth in his leg. And the poison would have poured into his veins. He looked again at Gorham.
His hand tightened and drove downward.
Gorham's eyes widened, then glazed. He gave a half-choked squawk. Feet and body jerked convulsively. Then the hard, taut strength was gone and the man lay limply. Don raised his hand and put his entire weight behind the stroke which drove his extended fingers into the soft part of the man's throat. Then he felt carefully, to be sure there was no vestige of a pulse.
* * * * *
He got to his feet and stood for a moment, looking down at the crumpled figure on the stones. Then he brought his hands up, to look at them appraisingly. He was suddenly aware of a feeling of lightness, of an uncontrollable desire to go into rapid motion. Any motion would do. His muscles simply demanded some sort of violent action. It seemed to him as if he almost floated as he walked over to the book he had thrown as he whirled on Gorham. He bent over and picked it up, then looked about the courtyard.
He turned and looked at the flier.
It was warmed up by this time. He moved swiftly over to it, his body jerking in a peculiar, off-beat cadence as he walked.
As he sat down before the controls, a calm voice echoed in his memory, going through his mind like a cold breeze.
"Let yourself get emotionally involved in a problem and it'll turn around and bite you."
He forced himself to sit back, his hands away from the controls.
Then he looked back at the body on the courtyard paving.
Gorham had implied that he was the power behind the whole present regime. Maybe he'd been bragging. But again, maybe he hadn't. There had been a queer, hard force about the man. There had been an aura which Don had sensed, but could not analyze. One thing was certain. This man had never been able to work under someone else's orders.
He looked around the interior of the flier.
"It's a Royal Guard job," he told himself.
He could see painted legends, giving cautions and instructions to whomever should pilot the ship. He felt under the dash.
There was a light board snapped into clips. He pulled it out and turned on the cabin lights.
Yes, it was all there. Instructions for the identification devices--description of the identification and warning lights. It gave the location of switches--the settings for communications. There was even a small card inserted in a pocket. It gave the communications code used by patrol fliers in routine communication. Don smiled happily.
Now, he could fly back to the hills. It would only take a few minutes, and----
Why should he? There was an easier way now.
It would be much easier to ride this flier right on into Oreladar. If he headed for the hills, questions might be asked which would be hard to answer. But Oreladar would be the normal place for Gorham to go. And the Federation compound wasn't too far from the Palace. He could feint at the Palace landing pad, then---- He nodded and studied the lighting plan and identification settings.
At last, he nodded in satisfaction, then turned his attention to the small card with the operations code. It was a simple, systematic arrangement, obviously arranged for day-to-day use, not for secrecy. He nodded and clipped it in front of him under the panel light, where he could see it easily. Then, he looked thoughtfully at the courtyard.
There was a small chance that some guard might decide to come into the house, he decided. Of course, it was still to be regarded as a private home, and they had no right to---- He laughed sarcastically.
"That would worry them!" he said aloud.
He got out of the flier and leaned over the body of Gorham. It was surprisingly light. The man had been carrying almost unbelievable strength and power of will in a tiny, frail body. Don threw his load over his shoulder and climbed back into the flier. Then he sat back and looked dully at the control panel.
* * * * *
Suddenly, he felt completely drained. It was just too much effort to get this ship off the ground. And that long flight to Oreladar? Just how much was a guy supposed to do in one day?
He sat supinely for a few minutes, simply staring at a nothingness beneath the surface of the panel. A small noise from the house aroused him, and he jerked up. He'd have to move.
Unwillingly, he pulled at the controls and the flier raised from the paving.
A blast of air hit the side of his face and he turned his head. He'd forgotten to close the door. He snarled at himself in annoyance, then leaned over and jerked at the handle. The ship swayed and dipped toward the lighted streets and he straightened quickly and righted it with a jerk. Then he snapped off the cabin lights and reached down to set up the identification patterns.
A tinny voice snapped at him.
"Rano ninety-one, Riandar control. Seven three seven."
Don looked at the code card before him. Yes, there it was. "Return to station." He glanced at the call sign on the panel before him. He was Onarati three. He nodded. Only an important official would be in this flier. Probably Gorham hadn't been bragging so much.
Another voice had acknowledged the order. Don looked at the speaker grill and shrugged. He set his course southward.
Again and again, the speaker rattled with calls and answers. Riandar control appeared to be busy tonight. Don smiled.
"The busier they are, the better," he told himself. "Then they can't bother me." He coughed.
"Wonder how Korentana made out?" He looked overside.
Abruptly, he was aware of another flier close to his. On its top a blue light blinked glaringly. He looked at it in consternation. Had they----? But how? He started to pull the control to him and go into evasive flight. Then he stopped.
"Use your head," he advised himself.
He reached out and scooped up the microphone. For an instant, he looked into space, thinking, then he spoke.
"Riandar control," he snarled in an imitation of Gorham's voice. "Onarati three. Got one of your guys on my back. What's the idea?" He released the button.
"Oh, boy," he told himself, "I hope that's the right approach." He looked toward the back of the cabin. If his short contact with Gorham had told him enough, and if he'd judged correctly ... and if Gorham was----
The speaker crackled. "Onarati three, Riandar control," it said. "Seven zero five?"
Don looked down at the card under the panel light. Yes, there it was. "Give your location."
He mashed the microphone button again. "Seven hundred meters," he snarled impatiently. "South edge of town. Come on, what's this guy doing, riding my tail?"
Another voice intruded into the speaker. "Your pardon, Onarati three," it said. "This is Rano two four. We cannot read your identification lights."
Don looked down at the panel, then shook his head in annoyance. He'd neglected one switch. He reached out and snapped it on. Then he pushed the mike button again.
"So now you happy?" he demanded. "So why ain't ya telling me something, instead of coming around with all them blinking lights?"
The other flier sheered away, its blinker off.
"Your pardon," said the speaker. "We were not sure."
Don sighed in relief. That had been too close for comfort. He glanced down, then blinked and looked again.
"Oh, no!" he growled incredulously. "I left my clothes by the pool."
* * * * *
Kent Michaels opened his eyes. In front of him was a shattered windshield. The light support struts were bent back. The heavy plastic had crackled and powdered. He stared at it. It must have been quite an impact. All he could remember was confused motion, then blackness.
He shook his head to clear his vision, then started to unfasten his seat belt.
And his whole left side exploded as each individual muscle and nerve set up a separate protest. He gritted his teeth against the sharp, red knives of agony.
"Got to reach that belt and get out of here," he told himself. "Wonder how long I've been out?"
He forced his hand to the buckle, then stopped.
"Oh, sure, you idiot," he said aloud. "Go ahead and let the belt go. You can't hurt yourself by landing on your thick head."
He forced himself to ignore the agony in his side and shoulder and looked around the cabin. Evidently, the ship had hit and rolled. He closed his eyes, trying to remember.
He'd evaded the pass that first guy had made at him. Then, when the second one showed up and dove in, he'd gone into a dead-duck spin. So far, so good. Evidently, they'd been fooled. Probably never saw that gag before. But what had happened after that? He searched his memory.
Oh, sure. He'd spun the ship under this overhang and set it down. And the ground had double-crossed him. Even a duck couldn't have kept a foothold on that ledge. He could remember the sudden tilt as the flier slid over and started to roll. Then everything had happened at once. He could remember trying to hold off the windshield from beating his brains out, but---- He opened his eyes. No use trying to analyze that part of it. Things had become confusing.
No matter how you figured it, he was here, hanging upside down in his seat belt in a pretty thoroughly wrinkled up ship. He moved his left arm experimentally.
His side went into screaming agony again.
Well, anyway, the shoulder wasn't broken. It could move--a little.
"Great," he told himself. "Now, how do you get out of this seat belt without breaking your stupid neck?"
He reached out with his right hand, to feel the padded roof under him. Well, maybe he could---- He set his teeth and forced his left hand to the belt release. If he could just hold enough weight with that right hand so that---- Well, no use worrying about it. Something had to be done. He pushed against the release. The shoulder screamed almost aloud. He started levering the buckle apart with his thumb.
Suddenly, the belt let go and he was struggling to put enough power into his right arm to hold himself away from the approaching roof.
For a seeming eternity, he struggled to maintain his balance and ease himself down. Then there was a soft bump. He sank into soft, cushioned blackness.
It was dark when he opened his eyes again. Incuriously, he rolled his eyes from side to side. He could see nothing. He let himself slip back into the soft nothingness.
Slowly, he came back to being. For a timeless instant, he examined a cushion which lay just before his eyes. Then pain messages started clamoring for attention. There were too many of them to unscramble. Everything was screaming at once.
He breathed in shallow gasps, then forced himself out of his cramped position. At last, he managed to get to his knees and crawl out of the gaping hole where a door had been. Outside, he collapsed to the ground and lay, panting.
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." _