_ For more than five years, the ink of First Lieutenant Hense's commission had been perfectly dry. He'd been in one major campaign and he'd served on more than one outworld. For his entire commissioned career, he'd been a Security Guard Officer. And he'd never had a reputation for being at all tolerant when regulations were broken--or even bent.
He looked angrily at the man before him.
"I don't care," he said distinctly, "if you're Hosanna, the Great. What I want to----"
"Oh, be quiet!" Michaels held up an impatient hand. "I hate to be impolite about this, but it's no joke. I've got something hot here--really hot. I want to see Commissioner Jackson. And when he finds out what I've got, he's going to want to see me. Now let's get over and find him. Move!"
Hense turned and stepped off. This, he decided, wasn't real. He must be dreaming. He tried to stop, but found it was impossible. He'd been given definite instructions, and----
He walked toward the path to the Residence. Behind him, he heard the newcomer's voice.
"You can go back to your post, guard. Better watch it, though. One of those Royal Guard ships might try a landing. Might be a good idea to get a few more men out there."
Again, Hense tried to turn around and challenge this fellow. Hang it, he was the Officer of the Guard. He was supposed to be giving the orders. In fact, he should have this fellow in the detention cell by now, waiting for the major to see him in the morning. He paused in mid-stride.
"Never mind stopping, lieutenant," Michaels told him. "Just keep going. I want to see the commissioner before Stern's people figure out something really good."
Hense gave up. He must be asleep. It was the only possible answer. Of course, that was bad, too. On some stations, an Officer of the Guard was permitted to take a nap between guard checks. But Major Kovacs had some sort of a thing about that. He'd made it clear that there was plenty of time for napping during off-watch time. His officers, he said positively, would never sleep while their men were on guard.
And he made checks, too. Hense struggled with himself. He had to wake up.
It was insane. How, he wondered, could a guy be asleep and dreaming--and know it? And, knowing it, why couldn't he wake himself up? This was pure fantasy. Yeah, dream stuff. He waited nervously.
Any time now, the major could be coming around to check the guardroom. Then the roof would fall in. Any minute now, he could expect to hear a window-shattering roar.
"Halt!"
It was the Residence Guard. Post number two.
"All right," Michaels' voice was low. "Hold up. Answer him. Have him continue his tour, and let's be on our way."
Hense stopped. "Officer of the Guard," he said loudly.
"Advance, one, to be recognized."
Hense sighed and stepped forward, then halted again at the guard's command.
The man flashed a light on him, then raised his weapon to his face and snapped it to the raise position again.
"I recognize you, sir. Any special instructions?"
"None. Just continue on your post."
Inwardly, Hense was reaching the boiling point. That hadn't been what he'd intended to say, dammit! He----
"Pardon, sir," the guard was saying, "but how about this man here?"
Now, Hense realized, there must be something really going on. Dream creatures just couldn't walk out of a man's mind and show up in front of an alert guard. Or had he completely lost gyro synch? He----
Michaels broke in again. "It's all right, guard. Just continue on your post. And keep an especially sharp lookout from now on."
"Yes, sir." The guard snapped his weapon up to his face again, then holstered it and turned to continue his tour.
Hense looked after him.
It wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare.
He resumed his pacing, toward the Residence.
"Oh, well," he thought resignedly, "might as well relax and enjoy it. Wonder what'll happen next."
Commissioner Jackson himself came to the door.
"What was that fire, lieutenant?" he demanded. He noticed Michaels.
"And what have we here?" He drew his head back a little, frowning.
Don interrupted. "Are you Commissioner Jackson?"
"Yes. But----"
"Good! Here, take this." Don shoved the book out. "And let's go into your office."
Benton Jackson looked incredulously at the figure before him. He reached out and accepted the book, then turned.
"Another of those!" he said softly.
Hense followed them inside. There were, he was discovering, peculiar things about this dream business. He had completed his mission. He hadn't been dismissed. But he could wait here, or he could tag along and see what happened.
"Well, now," he told himself. "Things are looking up."
Jackson walked over to his desk, snapping on the room lights as he passed them. He sat down and placed the book on the desk.
"Well," he demanded, "what's next?"
Don Michaels reached over the desk and flipped the book open.
"Page seven oh one," he said simply. "Read it. Then, I'll start telling you a lot of things." He hesitated.
"You
can read Oredanian script, I hope?"
Jackson nodded in annoyance. "Of course. Part of my business." He flipped over the pages, looking at numbers. Then he glanced up.
"How about the lieutenant?"
Don faced about. "Oh," he said. "Sorry. You can go back to your guardroom, lieutenant. I'm sorry I had to get rough with you, but I was in a hurry. Still am, for that matter. Only one more thing. For the love of all that's holy, have your people keep a sharp lookout for the rest of the night. I've a hunch Stern's people will try almost anything right now, short of risking full-scale battle."
Hense shook his head dazedly. Jackson looked up from the book.
"It's all right, lieutenant," he said. "Go ahead. And you might take this man's word on the heavy guard. If we've got what I think we've got, and if Stern knows it, he might even risk a battle."
Hense suddenly realized he was no longer under any kind of restraint.
And, he realized, this had been no dream.
He had actually been ordered around like some recruit. And that by some no-good, naked native kid.
His guard had been pushed around. Unauthorized orders had been given to them.
And they'd obeyed those orders--without question.
In fact, the whole compound had been virtually taken over.
And all by this same kid.
And the commissioner said it was all right?
Hense turned away. He'd----
He took a step, then reconsidered. He had a better idea.
"This place," he said savagely, "has just plain gone to hell!" He stalked through the door.
The commissioner's amused voice followed him.
"Not yet," it said, "but it very possibly might, lieutenant. Don't forget to double your guard."
* * * * *
As the door closed, Jackson looked at Don, a smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes.
"Afraid you were just a little rough on him," he said. "He'll get over it, but it's pretty unsettling, you know." He shrugged.
"But you haven't introduced yourself. Special Corps?"
Don looked at him blankly, then shook his head.
"I'm afraid I don't know what that is," he admitted.
Jackson examined him carefully. "Hm-m-m," he said slowly. "Interesting! Tell me, how long have you been ordering people around like this?"
Don spread his hands. "Why, I don't really know," he said. "You see, I----"
Jackson held up a hand, smiling. "Never mind. Do you always go around ... ah ... dressed like that?"
Don glanced down, then grinned. "I'm sorry, sir, but I was in something of a dither a while ago. Truth is, I forgot to dress after I----"
"Wait a minute." Again, Jackson held up a hand. "Start at the beginning. While you're giving me the story, I'll have some clothes brought in for you." He touched a button on his desk, then leaned back.
"All right," he said, "let's have it. First, of course, who are you?"
While Don was talking, an impassive aide brought an outfit for him. He slipped into the clothing as he finished his account.
"So," he concluded, "all we need to do now is to force a conclave and it's all over. From what Gorham told me, I'm pretty sure I can tear Stern apart myself." His eyes clouded.
"Of course, there's Mr. Masterson. I guess they've got him in one of the torture cells."
Jackson waved a hand. "There's no problem about Masterson. We'll have him over here by morning.
"And I have an idea your father is all right. From what you tell me, I'd say he used one of the evasion tricks they teach Guard pilots. Then, he probably made a safe landing." He leaned forward and snapped down the key on his intercom.
"Emergency operation schedule, Lorenz," he said, "as of now. Have the department heads report here immediately. Have Communications get out an immediate message to Deloran Base. I want at least three squadrons, and I want 'em now. Tell 'em to burn the grass." He lifted the switch and turned to Don.
"I'm not going to take any chances from here on," he remarked. "We'll send a squadron of fighters along with you to pick up young Waern and the clan leaders. That way, they'll have protection." He frowned.
"Now, that leaves us with only one more problem."
Don looked up questioningly and the commissioner nodded.
"We'll have to find someone to represent the Waernu before the conclave. And he'll have to be acceptable to the Waernu."
"That's simple. They've already picked me."
"Won't work now. You can bring them before the clans, of course. But they'd be in a hole if you got snapped out on civil charges right in the middle of the conclave."
"Civil charges?"
"That's right. Little matter of that body out in the flier. You know, and I know, the story on that. It's clearly line of duty. But up to the decision of the conclave, you're vulnerable. Remember, Stern can claim Gorham as a police agent. So, you were resisting arrest. Catch?"
"Ow!" Don looked down at the floor. Then he shrugged.
"But Stern has no way of knowing what happened to Gorham."
"Admitted." Jackson smiled. "But he might guess. You'd have to be consulting with his people for some time before the conclave, you know. And he'd have time to figure things out. Here you are. Here's the clan book. But where's Gorham? And Gorham went up to find that book. Adds up, you see."
"You mean I've got to stay under cover from now on?"
"Not necessarily. The clan warden doesn't have to be identified ahead of time. Usually, it's just an honorary job, any way. But this time, he might really have to perform his traditional duty." He looked at Don seriously.
"Remember the private conversation between claimant and prime minister? About that time, the warden is the only protection the claimant has.
"And this is one time a claimant may really need protection."
* * * * *
Daniel Stern slapped a folder down on his desk and got to his feet. He circled the large office, then stopped, looking down at Gorham's vacant desk.
What had happened to Gorham? Papers were stacked all over his own desk. And they should be here. Most of them had been old Jake's concern. He hadn't realized how much detail the old man had controlled.
But where was Gorham? He'd come in from Riandar. Reports showed that much. Then, his flier had suddenly dashed over and landed on the Federation pad. They'd tried to stop him, but----
Something must have gone wrong up there at Riandar. Something must have made Gorham decide to come back and make a separate deal of his own. But why? There was that pile of clothes in the Waern house. Had he----?
Maybe that blast had killed Gorham and destroyed his evidence.
He looked around hopefully. It was possible. No effort had been made to restrain him. He still controlled the Ministry. No effort had been made to limit his authority.
He picked up a sheet of paper. Oh, no? They didn't want to limit him--they wanted everything. Here was this demand for a conclave.
And with that Waern kid running around loose, that was bad.
And he had no one to talk to! Of all the people in this palace, not a single one could serve as confidant. With Gorham gone----
He shuffled through the papers. Yes, here was the formal demand for a conclave. He looked at it unhappily.
And here was the transcript of the Waern claim. It looked too good.
He tossed the papers back to the desk. It was good, and he knew it. He'd seen the originals in the heraldric files. They were destroyed, of course. But here was a photo of that clan book!
And worse, here was the notice from the Resident Commissioner that the claimant had requested protective intervention from the Galactic Federation. That was really bad. He could remember his interview with the commissioner on that.
Jackson had always been something of a problem. He was a stubborn man. But up to now, he'd always backed down--if enough pressure was put on him. This time? Hah!
He'd come in, bringing that rancher--that Kent Michaels. Stern frowned.
Hadn't old Jake said that guy had been shot down--was dead?
He hadn't looked very dead. As councilor of the Waern clan, Michaels was supposed to be calling on Jackson for backing. Who, Stern wondered, was backing who? He recalled the interview.
They'd come in. And he'd started to establish dominance over Jackson.
Then that Michaels had butted in. He was worse than old Jake. What with one thing and another, he'd backed Stern into every corner in the office.
It had ended very simply.
Jackson had simply declared that there would be a conclave.
The Stellar Guard detachment would be in attendance. No irregularities would be tolerated.
And he'd even named the day--today. Then the two of them had walked out.
Stern twisted his chair around viciously and sat down. He punched at a button on his desk.
An aide came through the door. That was another thing. After that fiasco at the Michaels ranch, he'd had to get a new aide. He motioned the man forward impatiently.
"You have made final arrangements for the conclave?"
"Yes, sir. The Heraldric Branch has everything set up. The clans have already gathered in the Throne Room. The private conversation will be held in the Blue Palace. After the conversation, you will escort the claimant across the south lawn, to the Throne Room." The aide half turned.
"I can get you the plan and diagrams, sir."
Stern waved a hand. "Never mind. I've seen them." He paused.
"Now, has my space yacht been positioned back of the Blue Palace? Is it properly serviced?"
The aide paused. "Yes, sir." He looked curious, but said no more.
Stern examined him haughtily. "Very well," he said. "You will remember my instructions. Discuss the yacht with no one. You may go."
He watched as the door closed, then got out of his chair again. It was time for the conversation. He glanced about the office, then went out into the private garden.
* * * * *
As he walked, he looked at the side paths among the trees, which seemed to beckon to ever more enticing vistas beyond. There were the miniature landscapes, with their mountains and lakes. There were the small cottages, where one could sit and enjoy a cooling drink. He smiled wryly and walked across a miniature bridge.
As he reached the other side, he stopped, to lean against the rail. This was not going to be easy to give up.
He watched the water birds for a while, then went on his way.
As he came through a small grove, he saw the yacht. It had been set down where it could easily take off, and yet where it was impossible to see unless one came within a few meters. The aide had done well. He'd have to remember----
No, he thought, someone else would be dealing with that aide in the future. He'd be long gone.
He walked up to the ship and opened the door, looking inside. Then, he climbed in, glancing at his watch. It was past time for the conversation. The claimant and his warden would be waiting. So would the other clan wardens, who waited to make up the advance guard of honor.
He wondered how long they'd wait.
He sat down in the pilot's chair and glanced at the gauges. Then he flipped on the view panels and looked outside at the trees.
It had been a lot of fun. But----
"No use taking foolish chances," he told himself.
He reached for the starting bar, then hesitated.
"Wait a minute," he told himself. "Who's the prime minister around here, anyway? I can----"
He sat back, thinking. Of course. It was such a beautifully simple idea. Really foolproof. He should have thought of it before.
There would be only the few of them in that private conversation. He should have realized that. They'd present no difficulty. The wardens? He snorted.
Just a bunch of dressed-up idiots. No trouble there. Anyway, only one of them was directly concerned. And he wouldn't really know what was going on. Only the claimant would know. He laughed.
"Wonder just how it feels to get ordered around like that?"
After the conversation, he could walk into the conclave with signed papers. And who would dare challenge that? Even the commissioner's people would have to admit defeat. He smiled. Michaels? He'd be standing there with his mouth open. Nothing he could do. It would be too late.
And once he got that crowd back into his jurisdiction, there'd be no further problems. He'd be sure of that.
This was actually what he'd been waiting for! This was a formal conclave, called at the request of the tribes themselves. They'd have to choose now. And there was no one else.
He, Daniel Stern, would walk out of that Throne Room with the silver robes over his shoulders.
King Daniel!
He climbed out of the yacht and paced toward the small doorway, at the back of the Blue Palace.
He came into the private conference room and walked with dignified stride toward his place. As he came under the canopy, he stopped and placed his hands on the rail.
With haughty appraisal, he allowed his gaze to roam over the men who stood to flank the outer door. At last, he stopped, to center his attention on the two who stood in the doorway.
Here were the two key figures--the claimant and his warden.
The man on the right was dressed as for battle, his polished sling stick shoved into his sash at an angle so as to be easy to his right hand, just to the left of it was thrust the long hillman's knife. There was only one thing unorthodox about his equipment. Stern frowned as he inspected that.
In his right hand, the man carried a long device of wood and metal. Obviously, it was a weapon of sorts. Stern examined it carefully, speculating as to its nature.
It was, he finally decided, some type of beam projector. Judging from the long barrel, it would throw a narrow cone. Mentally, Stern calculated the probable dispersion.
Some Stellar Guard weapon, he thought, that had been loaned to this fellow. Well, it made no difference. Whoever the fellow was, he'd never dare use such a device here. He turned his attention to the other--the claimant.
So this was Pete Waern?
The boy was slight, he noted, even for a native. Definitely, the studious type, decided Stern. He'd present no problem at all.
The regent almost allowed himself a smile. This was going to be easy! He motioned the two forward.
"You have matters for our attention?" he inquired formally.
Waern stepped to the rail.
"I here claim to be the rightful heir to the throne of Oredan," he said slowly. He took a book from under his arm and laid it on the table beside Stern.
"I here present the book of my ancestors," he went on. "In it, at the place marked, is the contract of the last lawful king of Oredan, and of his queen. I was designated to be their son."
Stern nodded. "It is well," he said. "We shall consider this matter."
He opened the book and glanced at the script and the two signature stamps. Then he jerked back dramatically, staring at the book in simulated consternation. He bent forward again, for a closer look.
"This is most strange," he said in a low, wondering tone. He shook his head.
"These looked authentic in reproduction," he murmured. "But now?" He glanced at Pete and was forced to repress a smile.
The expression on the Waern boy's face was perfect. He had him! He looked about the room, then gazed sternly at the claimant.
"I find it almost impossible to believe," he said coldly, "that there is a person in this realm who would have the temerity to bring such a document to my attention for serious consideration."
He stabbed a finger out to point at the book and fixed Pete with an accusing stare.
"I find this a complete forgery," he said harshly. "Your claim is, of course, denied and declared fraudulent." He stepped around the rail, to tower over the boy.
"You will, therefore, acknowledge your crime in writing." He reached out and took a pen from the table.
"You will now write the words, 'forgery, no genuine contract,' over these pages. And you will sign your name." He paused, thrusting the pen toward Pete.
"You will then----"
* * * * *
The warden stepped forward.
"Pete," he said sharply. "Listen to me!"
Stern looked up in annoyance. The Waern boy had started to take the pen. Now, he stopped and jerked around.
"You will listen to nothing this man tells you," ordered the warden. "You will do nothing he asks. Do you understand that?"
The boy nodded. "Thanks, Don," he said. "He almost got me that time."
Stern glared angrily at the warden.
"You will go back to your place," he ordered. "Do not attempt to interfere again."
Incredulously, he watched as the warden shook his head.
"Sorry, fellow," he heard the man say, "but that doesn't work on me. And it won't work on Pete--not again. Now suppose we do this thing right."
Stern examined the man more closely.
He was larger than the Waern boy, and more strongly built. But he was very little older--and definitely no giant. He was at least fifteen centimeters shorter than Stern himself, and much lighter. Looked, Stern decided, like a galactic. He felt a surge of hatred.
No little man could dare defy him!
He tilted his head a little and looked downward into the warden's eyes.
"Your duties are to protect the person of this boy, so long as he is a legitimate claimant for the throne," he said contemptuously, "not to advise him. Your presence here is merely required by tradition, not by real need."
He smiled coldly. "And, since his claim is obviously nonexistent, you have no standing here. Leave this palace at once!" He pointed imperiously at the door, then turned his attention to Pete again.
"You will write as I told you. Now!"
"Ignore him, Pete." The warden raised his weapon a little.
"Name's Michaels," he told Stern conversationally. "Donald Michaels. You've met my father already." He moved the long weapon again.
"You sent some of your people up to our place a while ago. I destroyed them with this." He jerked his head downward at the barrel of the weapon.
"Brought it along with me when I came down here. It's quite capable of taking you apart, I assure you." He moved a hand on the stock.
"And if you attempt any more of that unlawful coercion," he added, "that's just what will happen. I'll protect my claimant, you see."
He tilted his head, to indicate the other clan wardens.
"These men know what is supposed to be done here as well as you and I," he added. "We all know this is a purely formal meeting. The validity of these documents has already been determined."
"As Prime Minister, I----"
"It is no part of your duty here to rule on the validity of any document," Michaels interrupted. "And it certainly isn't proper to attempt in any manner to persuade a claimant to abandon his claim. Not here. These things are proper only before the full conclave."
"Are you trying to tell me my duties?" Stern looked incredulous. This was not going well at all!
"I am doing just that," Don told him evenly. "Apparently someone has to." He glanced around the room.
"Are there any other claimants present?"
Stern felt drained of energy. What was this? The father had been impossible to control--like Gorham. Did the son combine other powers with that resistance? Where had these Michaels people come from? He tried once more.
"There are no valid claimants present," he snapped sharply. "I----"
"That's not exactly what I asked," Don told him. "But we'll take it as meaning that Pete's the only claimant. So, I demand that you follow the ritual and escort him to the conclave." He waved the weapon.
"Come on. We've been held up here long enough. Let's go."
* * * * *
Suddenly, Stern felt powerless. This whole thing had fallen apart. He should never have come in here. He should have just taken off--as he had intended. In space, he would have been safe, at least. Here? He bent his head resignedly.
He could try one more thing. This was a young man--inexperienced. Maybe----
"You will precede us," he said.
"No," Don told him, "I don't think I will. I think it will be better if I leave that honor to one of the other wardens. I want to be able to see you." He jerked his head at a man who stood to the left of the door.
"Will you honor us, Mernar-dar?"
The other tilted his head. "It is I who am honored," he said. He turned and went out the door.
Dazedly, Stern walked forward, pacing with the claimant. He paused as he got to the porch. Michaels was still standing inside the door.
"Right here," he said coldly, "we shall return to a very old custom. I shall remain, to protect the rear. And I shall watch the entire progress of the advance to the Throne Room." He smiled grimly.
"You are, I suppose, familiar with the range of a medium duty blaster?"
Stern nodded. "I've seen them operate," he admitted.
"Good." Don nodded. "This thing will outrange them a little. I'll have you in my sights all the way. Remember that, and don't do anything that might cause me to fear for Pete's safety."
The wardens spread out, to fan out before Stern and Pete. Acting the part of scouts before a column, they started across the wide lawn, toward the Throne Room.
Stern watched them for a moment, then took Pete's arm. Together, they walked down the long flight of steps. For a moment, they paused at the path, as ritual demanded, for a signal to continue.
Stern allowed his thoughts to race.
There was no question about it now, he thought. This boy would be upheld by the conclave--if he got before it. And if he were now sustained, an ex-regent named Stern would find himself in very grave trouble indeed.
This was much worse than that mob in Tonar City. He glanced toward the gate in the wall ahead and to his right.
Just beyond that door lay his yacht--and safety. If he could only figure out a way----
* * * * *
Across the lawn, a warden was making the signal for the advance. The way, then, was ritually clear. Stern stepped forward, still glancing toward that door.
They would pass within just a few meters of it. Now, where was that Michaels?
Suddenly, he realized he could never hope to get out his hidden weapon, find Michaels with it, and vaporize him. Not until the other had plenty of time to release a beam of his own. He shuddered, remembering the destruction that weapon had caused up in the Morek.
At this range, even the narrowest blaster beam would fan out enough to destroy a man's entire body. And that thing, whatever it was----
Suddenly, he smiled. That was it! It would spread out too much.
He flipped out the little khroal from its hiding place in his sleeve and placed it against Pete's back. With his other hand, he gripped the boy around the throat. Then he turned, seeking to locate Michaels. The fellow was out of sight.
Probably, Stern thought, he had remained in the shadow of the huge pillars of the porch--or even inside the Blue Palace itself.
His whole body itched. The man might fire without thinking! He raised his voice.
"Can you hear me, Michaels?"
He had been right. The answering voice came from the palace doorway.
"I can hear."
"Then listen carefully." Stern put all his persuasive power into his voice.
"I shall not harm this boy unless I am forced to, but I assure you that if I am interfered with, I'll not hesitate. From where you are, you can do nothing. Any blast you release will spread out to kill him as well as me. You realize that?"
"I can hear you." Don's voice was expressionless.
"And," added Stern loudly, "if I am struck or attacked, I will have time to release this khroal. This is also obvious, is it not?"
There was no answer. Stern frowned. What was the fellow doing? He drew a deep breath. He'd have to go through with it now, no matter what.
"I am going to the gate in the wall over there. Shortly after I go through that gate, I shall release this boy, and use a means of escape which I have prepared. You may watch me, of course, but make no effort to stop me--or this boy dies."
He paused again, waiting for an answer.
The wardens, he could see, had stopped and stood, undecided. None of them was close enough to be dangerous.
This, he thought with a surge of hope, was going to work out after all. He turned his eyes for a swift glance at his captive.
Once at the yacht, he could release a bit of energy from the khroal. This boy had destroyed all his careful plans. No, he decided, Pete Waern could not be allowed to live and enjoy those good things the palace afforded.
He tightened his grip about the boy's neck.
* * * * *
Don Michaels had strapped his sling on his arm. Now, he lay on the floor of the Blue Palace. Stern's head was centered in the scope and the cross hairs bobbed slowly about a spot just in front of the man's right ear.
"No question about it," Don told himself, "if Stern gets Pete through that gate, that'll be the end of Pete."
He put pressure on the trigger.
"The guy's as sore as a singed gersal," he told himself. "And half nuts besides. He'll spray Pete with that thing if it's the last thing he ever does." He continued his pressure on the trigger. The cross hairs still hovered about the man's ear.
"Hope that anatomy book was right," he told himself.
Of course, he realized, if he missed the tiny target--if the bullet failed to destroy the motor centers on impact--Stern would die anyway. But he just might be able to press the release on that khroal. And that wouldn't be good.
The aiming point moved a trifle and Don eased back into position.
What had happened to the trigger on this thing? Had he forgotten to take off the safety? Again, the cross hairs started to wander and he eased them back--back toward that little spot.
The rifle leaped upward with a roar, slamming back against Don's shoulder. He let it settle again, examining the scene anxiously through his sight.
Stern was still on his feet, but his hands were dropping limply to his sides. Don could just see the glitter of the khroal by Pete's feet. Then, Stern's knees bent and he flowed to the ground.
Pete had turned at the sound of the shot. He looked back at the palace door, then glanced at the khroal.
At last, he knelt beside the body on the ground. He felt the throat, then examined the man's head. For an instant, he looked a little sick, then he looked away from the tiny hole in front of the man's ear. He got to his feet and waved a hand.
"Pinwheel," he shouted.
* * * * *
The newly enrobed King of Oredan settled back in his chair and shook the heavy cloth back from his shoulder.
"So," he said thoughtfully, "it's all over." He sighed.
"And it's all just beginning, too. Now, I'll have to form a government." He smiled sadly.
"It's funny, Don. For years, I've dreamed of actually being king. Now it's suddenly happened and I feel about as helpless as they come." He stretched out a hand. "All at once, I'm realizing it's pretty rough for a schoolboy to suddenly find himself with a whole nation to run. I don't know where to start."
"You'll get used to it, Pete." Don smiled at him. "Get yourself a few really competent advisors. Tell them what you want, and let them go out and get some competent people to do things. And you've got it whipped."
"Yeah." Pete nodded. "Yeah, I guess that's the way it's done. But---- Well, I asked for it. And they handed it to me." He looked directly at Don.
"How about you? You've got plenty of clan rank, you know. What department do you want?"
Don shook his head slowly. "Don't look at me," he advised. "They offered me a spot in the Stellar Guard and I'm signing up." He glanced around the room.
"I've got no place here."
"What are you talking about?" Pete frowned. "I owe this whole thing to you. I wouldn't even be alive if you hadn't been around. You can have anything you want here, and you know it. What can the Federation offer you?"
Don shrugged. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "Lot of work, of course. Pride of accomplishment, maybe. Peace of mind. Hard to say. Only one thing I'm sure of. I wouldn't work out here."
"I don't get it." Pete shook his head.
Don looked at him, his face expressionless.
"Look, Pete. Do you really like me?"
"Why, of course. You saved my life and set me on the throne. I told you that."
"Not just what I mean. Do you feel perfectly relaxed and easy when I'm around? Would you really call me a close friend?"
Pete squirmed in his chair. Uneasily, he looked overhead at the tassled canopy.
"That's a lousy way to put it," he complained.
"Well?" Don's face was still expressionless.
Pete forced himself to look directly at him.
"I don't know. I ... well, you've done so darn much. Well, I guess I am a little afraid of you, at that." He looked at the floor.
"Oh, all right. I'll have to admit it. You do actually make me uneasy. Always did, even back at school. Lot of fellows felt the same way."
Don stood. "That's what I mean. And it would get worse if I hung around. You'd get so you hated yourself--and me." He held out a hand.
"You're the king--the ruler of this whole nation. That means you've got to be the head man. No one can give you orders. They can suggest, but no one can be even capable of giving you orders." He smiled.
"Dad will rebuild the ranch, of course. And I may come back once in a while, in a very quiet way. But for the most part, I'd better not be around too often."
Pete got to his feet. Suddenly, he looked relieved and at ease.
"I'll make certain your ranch is never interfered with," he promised. "It's yours, so long as you or your father want it. And I hope that some day it'll be a home for your kids." He paused.
"If you ever do decide to come to the capital," he added, "you'll be a welcome guest at the palace."
"O.K." Don grinned. "Let's leave it that way. Good-by, then, and I hope yours is the longest reign in history."
He turned and walked through the curtain.
[THE END]
Everett B. Cole's novel: Best Made Plans
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