Slave Race 28/?
by Nan Smith and Linda Garrick
Kurt stole quietly up the cellar stairs and let himself out into the kitchen. Everywhere food preparation was in progress. He went quietly past the busy servants and down the hallway to the big entertainment room. There was the stage crew, just putting the final touches on the sound setup. He saw Sonnor, the Arcturian stage manager, shouting at some of the crew to be careful with the lighting. They were almost done, Kurt noted. He went unobtrusively across the floor to the dressing rooms. Several chests sat about, stuffed with odds and ends of clothing and decorations. Swiftly, he disentangled a pair of bright colored trousers from a feathered headband, and a loose shirt of a violent shade of cerise. After a short hunt, he located a pair of boots covered in rhinestones, and a sash of a gold material trimmed with a purple fringe. Turning, he crossed the room once more, laden with the purloined articles.
Sonnor glanced at him, a snarl on his face. "Where haff you been?" he demanded. "Where are you going wizz zose zings?"
"One of Miss Davenport's backup singers spilled teeva juice on his outfit," Kurt informed him, without a blink. "He's in the bathroom down the hall. He told me to bring him a change."
Sonnor grimaced expressively. "Well hurry up! We are neffer going to be ready at ziss rate!"
"Yes, sir!" Kurt replied. "Excuse me." He proceeded away as fast as he could without attracting further attention.
Alan was awaiting him at the foot of the stairs and obligingly glitched the camera with pinpoint precision to allow him to pass. Without pausing, they proceeded to the little room now occupied by Fannir and the unconscious guard. Kurt glanced at the man. "What about him?"
"I drugged him," said Alan. "He'll sleep for about six hours or so. We'll be long gone by then. What did you manage to get?"
For answer, Kurt held up his booty. Alan blinked at it, then grinned. "Well," he commented, "at least in that thing, nobody's going to look at your face, Fannir. Get into it, quick. We don't know how much time we have before this guy has to report in."
The Arcturian rapidly stripped off the loincloth he wore and began to pull on the gaudy, sparkling attire. The switch was completed within a few moments and Fannir stood up, tugging at the brilliant trousers. They were too loose on him, and hung on his emaciated frame like sacks. Alan helped him tighten the belt. Kurt nodded appreciatively.
"Good. You better get going. If this guy doesn't report in on time they're going to send somebody to check and then the fat'll be in the fire."
Alan glanced at the unconscious figure. "Sorry, guy." He went to the door. "Back in fifteen minutes."
Fannir turned to Kurt. "Where is he going?"
"To get servant uniforms for us. We've got to stop being stage hands and become servants if we're going to get up to Karl's cell."
"But where will he get zem?"
"Trust him."
**********
Alan reached the wine cellars again and paused. No one was about. When they had begun this venture, it had been their intention to simply look things over, locate the Arcturian who owned the ring, and learn from him the whereabouts of the boy who had been wearing it. But now things had changed. The Arcturian was not simply a servant who had befriended another servant. Both he and the boy were prisoners and must be rescued without delay. Fannir was already fairly safe. In the guise of an entertainer he could probably be removed from the palace easily enough. Arcturians, as he had mentioned already to Kurt, looked pretty much alike to Jilectans, and to Terrans, too, for that matter. It would have been like trying to tell alligators apart to Alan before he had become personally acquainted with a few of the aliens and learned their distinct traits and personalities. So Fannir could probably be removed with no one the wiser until somebody decided to check on the prisoner--which might be a considerable time. But that left Karl. Aside from the fact that he was a captive, unhappy, alone, and the helpless pawn of their mutual enemy, he was also a distinct threat to the Underground while in the hands of the Jils. Alan knew he was being emotional about it, and that his C.O. would probably not have approved of the risk he was taking, and yet, looking at it logically, there was nothing else they could do. They must attempt a rescue now. If they didn't, Fannir's disappearance would be discovered and Karl's location would be changed immediately before the Underground could effect a rescue. No, they must free him now, before the Jils became aware that his presence and location were known.
He went quietly up the stairs and through several intersecting hallways, making for the servants quarters, and trying to look like he belonged. No one glanced at him. This was a big occasion, he supposed, and everyone, thank goodness, was busy.
The servants' quarters were in the rear of the great mansion and paused in the hall outside some of the small rooms, concentrating. Very few people were in this area of the palace. Everyone must be completely occupied with the big shindig downstairs. Alan glanced quickly around, then approached the first door that caught his fancy. Casually he placed a hand on the control. His mind reached out and telekinetic energies closed about the lock. It clicked and the door slid aside.
He entered, closing the door, and glanced quickly around the room. This apartment was apparently occupied by four servants, for two bunk beds stood against the walls. A shaggy rug covered the floor and clothing was draped everywhere. The place smelled like dirty socks.
Alan went to the closets and flung them wide. Uniforms! Lots of them! He quickly selected one that appeared about his size and pulled it on. Now, for Kurt. Hastily he shuffled through the clothing, selected another costume and rolled it into a ball, tucking it beneath his arm. Fannir? Perhaps he should take one for the Arcturian, just in case, although under their present plans he wasn't likely to need one. Still, the situation might change. Alan selected a third suit, rolled it tightly, and glanced around. A pillow caught his eye. He snatched it up, shook the case loose and stuffed the uniforms inside, along with his discarded stage set coveralls. Then he closed the closets, tucked the bulging bundle under one arm, gave the room a quick, final scrutiny, and went to the door. He had left no sign of his visit, except for the missing uniforms and pillowcase, and no one was likely to make the connection between the missing articles and a possible intruder until it was much too late.
He concentrated a moment, assuring himself that the hallway without was still vacant, then exited, locking the door once again with telekinesis.
He walked rapidly back toward the cellar room, holding the bundle beneath his arm. The whole process of rescuing Fannir and securing the uniforms had taken about forty-five minutes. The concert was commencing. He could feel the walls around him quiver as the first strains of Lola Davenport's music began. About an hour and a half was left for them to arrange the remainder of the rescue. They'd have to hurry a bit. Manipulating himself into the Procyon's slot might take some doing, and before that, they had to find the guy.
He reached the cellars without incident, almost ran down the dank little tunnel, and entered the room where Kurt and Fannir were waiting for him. Quickly he handed his companion the uniform. "Here you are. Hope it fits."
"I'm sure it will." Kurt began to pull on the clothing. His discarded stage coveralls lay in a heap beside him, and Alan bent, stuffing them into the pillowcase with the rest of the clothing. He straightened up, glancing at Fannir.
"How are you doing? You look pretty wiped out."
"I am fine, zank you, sir."
"Wish I had some food for you. Maybe we can get you something upstairs."
"It does not matter. I am accustomed to short rations." He glanced at the guard, who lay unconscious against the wall, snoring on a high note. "Zat guy is going to be confused when he wakes up."
"He won't wake up for awhile," Alan said.
"I certainly hope not. How are you planning to rescue Karl, sir? He is under constant guard--I counted six guards outside zee room, and inside zee room zere is a camera so zat zey may watch his movements at all times."
"I figured that would be the set-up. Anything else we ought to know?"
Fannir considered. "Zere are no windows. Zee furniture in zee room consists of a cot, a recliner, a chair and a table. Zere is a bazzroom, but I have no doubt zee camera follows him in zere, azz well."
"Who's in charge of security?"
"A fellow named Sam Ruffard. He is young for a patrolman. Karl told me he was just promoted because of somezing to do wizz Karl's capture. He is under orders to guard zee boy wizz his life."
"What kind of guy is he?"
"He seems very bright, but Karl has charmed him right out of his helmet." The Arcturian grinned briefly. "It was zrough him zat Halzzor was convinced zat I was to become Karl's companion instead of anozzer murder on zee streets of Franik. Zee man does not like Arcturians, however, and he knows me by sight. It would not be well for him to see me, even dressed like ziss."
"Thank you, Fannir. Ready Kurt?"
McDougal straightened up, fully clothed in the servant's attire. He grinned. "Good fit. I knew it would be."
"Good. Let's go."
They went out and Alan closed the door, leaving it unlocked. Quietly they traversed the corridor and went through the wine cellars. No one was around, fortunately, and Alan manipulated the camera one last time.
"It's just as well that we're leaving," he commented. "Any more glitches, and they'd send someone to check it out. They may, anyway."
They climbed the steps, emerging into the pantry behind the kitchens. Alan spoke quietly to Fannir.
"We need to find the Procyon who takes Karl's food to him. See if you can locate him, and point him out to us. I could scan for him, but I have nothing to focus on, except the image of him in your mind."
"Yes sir." Fannir looked around. "He is not here. Perhaps zee next room."
They went unobtrusively through several kitchens, all furiously busy with food preparation. The walls around them reverberated with the concert music.
Still Fannir had not spotted the servant. They entered a small lounge, and the Arcturian lounged indolently against one wall, watching figures pass. He was good at his part, Alan thought, approvingly. Fannir looked every centimeter the member of a stage crew--cocky, cool and unruffled. People passed, staring at him curiously. He returned their stares insolently. He'd be a good addition to their organization. The Terran Underground was always looking for skilled Arcturian operatives.
After a few moments he leaned across and spoke quietly to Alan. "He is not here eizzer."
Alan nodded to a door on the other side of the lounge. They crossed the room and entered another lounge, larger than the first. It was moderately crowded. A long table in its center was filled with Procyons and Terrans, drinking various brews and talking. All the Terrans looked sweaty and hot, while the Procyons' feathers were puffed out, indicating that they, too, were uncomfortably warm. Seated against a wall at a smaller table was another Procyon drinking a murky liquid from a large, crystalline coffee cup.
Fannir's arm tensed against him. "Zat one," he said. "Zat is Ch'Grak."
He turned casually away. The servant hadn't looked up, but several other beings in the room had noticed the outlandishly clad Arcturian and were staring at him. Alan moved a step closer to Kurt and spoke softly.
"Distract him and I'll drop the pill."
"You got it." Kurt crossed the room to the coffeepot and filled a cup. Leisurely he added cream and sugar, then sauntered across the room to the small table.
Fannir had apparently recovered from his momentary fright. He lifted his head, returning the stares of a gawking Terran unflinchingly. One side of his muzzle lifted scornfully, disclosing a sharp, glistening fang.
Kurt was taking a seat at the table across from Ch'Grak, and Alan heard him speaking. "Hi there. May I join you?"
"No." The reply was abrupt, leaving no room for argument. "Get losht."
Kurt lifted an eyebrow but made no move to rise. "Something eating you, buddy?"
"Nothing is eating me, Terran." The Procyon's Basic was heavily slurred. If Kurt hadn't known better, he'd have suspected the being of intoxication. "Kindly leave."
Kurt leaned forward. "What's your name?"
"That is none of your business."
"Is it Ch'Grak?"
The bird's eyes came up. "How did you know that?"
"I heard those guys over there talking about you."
Ch'Grak's turned his head quickly, looking accusingly around the room, but his three fingered hand still cradled the coffee cup. Alan watched him, awaiting his chance.
"Which guys?"
Kurt looked uneasy. "Never mind. Some guys here were pointing at you and discussing you. I didn't like it."
The Procyon's gaze returned to Kurt. "What were they shaying?"
"Oh, things..."
"What things?"
"One of them said you were crazy, but I..."
Two feathers on the Procyon's head lifted. "Who?"
"Well, I'm not exactly sure. Don't let it worry you. People will say anything." Kurt leaned across to pat the creature on the shoulder. Ch'Grak jerked back from him. This, no doubt, had been Kurt's intention, for the Procyon's hand fell from the coffee cup to push the Terran brusquely away. Alan took full advantage of the lapse. The little caffeine capsule lifted rapidly from his hand, and, propelled by telekinesis, skimmed across the room to drop softly into Ch'Grak's drink.
No one had noticed. Alan took a deep breath and went across the room to fill a mug with coffee, watching Kurt covertly from the corner of his eye.
"Hey, take it easy!" his friend was protesting, his voice rising slightly and bringing glances from the other beings in the room. "Forget I said anything, okay?" He started to stand up, picking up his own mug.
"I wish to know who shaid it!" The Procyon grabbed him by the wrist. Coffee slopped onto the table. More beings turned to look at them.
Kurt sucked a spot on his wrist where coffee had spilled. "Look, drop it, will you?"
"I will *not* drop it!"
Something was definitely bugging this stupid bird, Alan thought. Maybe he should interfere and get Kurt off the hook. No, that might make things worse. Kurt was a capable man, and could handle a situation like this.
McDougal had resumed his seat, still sucking the offended wrist. "Dammit, that hurt! Ease up, will you?"
"You will tell me who shaid these thingsh about me!"
"All right, hang on a minute and let me think." Kurt was looking embarrassed and a bit flushed. "Drink your drink and let me look around, okay?"
The Procyon sat back, then, to Alan's horror, lifted the cup and drained the contents in a single gulp. Blast! Alan had counted on the servant consuming the beverage slowly. A large dose of caffeine like that might have unforeseen effects, especially in the creature's present state of mind.
Within less than a minute, he saw the stuff begin to take effect. The feathers on the being's head began to puff out, and the grip on the mug tightened. Alan swallowed. Kurt, he thought, get away from that guy, quick.
Kurt, he knew, also recognized the danger, but there was no way to depart without it appearing suspicious. McDougal leaned back in his chair, sipping from his own mug, appearing to glance casually around the room. "Uh, he was a dark-haired fellow as I remember, and kind of an older man--probably over a hundred and fifty..."
"Putnam!" The Procyon surged to his feet, swaying slightly, his round eyes protruding, dark and dilated from the effects of the caffeine. "That fellow hash gone too far thish time!"
"No, no, his name wasn't..."
Ch'Grak ignored Kurt's feeble protest. He pushed the table hard, tipping it over on top of Kurt. Kurt half fell backwards as Ch'Grak turned to face the occupants of the room, who were now staring at him, their expressions betraying everything from surprise to disdain.
"*Who*?" he squawked. "Who shaid it?" He charged across the room, and Alan saw Kurt lean over quickly, sprawled on the floor as he was, to empty the remains of his own cup beside Ch'Grak's overturned vessel.
The Procyon tackled a man who had just entered the room, thrusting the fellow back against the wall. Servants jumped to their feet. Ch'Grak and the servant went down in a grasping, clawing tangle, rolled across the floor, upsetting a table and chair, and crashed into the wall beside Alan. Alan bent, trying to pull the Procyon off, then leaped back as the being swung wildly at him. A claw raked his shoulder, tearing the cloth of his uniform. Ch'Grak shrieked a Procyon curse at him and swung a second time. Kurt came running forward and grabbed the enraged alien, pulling him away from Alan. Other servants jumped forward to help. Ch'Grak was caught, held, and pinned to the floor by two husky Terrans. The Procyon's eyes passed over Fannir, then jerked back.
"It ish him!" he shrieked. "He has escaped! You said those things about me, you filthy serpent! Grab him, you cowardly fools! He is an escaped felon!"
Another Procyon charged into the room, his round, dark eyes dilated, two feathers standing up on his head. "What has happened? What is wrong in here?"
Fannir retreated quietly to a corner, but Ch'Grak appeared to have forgotten all about the Arcturian. He screeched wildly, lunging at Alan and Kurt. Murder shone in his widely dilated eyes.
"He just seemed to go crazy all of a sudden," one of the men holding Ch'Grak panted. "He was talking to that guy there." He nodded toward Kurt.
McDougal stepped forward, casting a dubious glance at the struggling captive on the floor. "We were just talking, and he suddenly pushed the table over on me. I didn't say anything bad--at least, I don't think I did."
"Ch'Grak's always been a little nuts." The speaker was the man whom the Procyon had first tackled. He rubbed a swelling bump over one eye.
Ch'Grak screamed something in his native language at the fellow.
"He acts drunk," one of the other employees observed.
"He certainly does." The Procyon who had just appeared glanced around. "What was he drinking?"
Kurt went over to the overturned table, followed by the Procyon. "That was his cup," he said, pointing. "He spilled it when he pushed the table over on me."
The Procyon wiped a finger through the spilled liquid, held the finger under his beak, then gave a shrill chirp.
"It ish coffee!" He turned furiously back on the enraged prisoner. "Consider yourself on report, Ch'Grak!"
Ch'Grak spat at him. The other turned away, clucking angrily. "The shtupid fool! With all the visitors here, and now this..."
Alan crossed the room, a telepathic finger carefully scanning the Procyon's mind. This was the head servant, Te'Fat, and he was very perturbed. Possible consequences of this incident and their effect on his position were uppermost in his mind. Ch'Grak's continued screams were a further source of annoyance. Alan strengthened the probe, his empathic fingers encircling the mind of the head servant. Alan could not manage mind control of beings more intelligent than a chimpanzee, but he could apply a gentle suggestion, unknown to the person, that could sway a decision the person was trying to make. "Sir?"
"What?" The abrupt acknowledgement was reflective of the creature's state of mind.
Te'Fat, Alan saw, knew nothing of Ch'Grak's duty of serving the prisoner in the upper reaches of the palace. Undoubtedly, Ch'Grak had been firmly instructed to keep what he was doing a secret. It made sense.
"Sir, If you'd like, I'll take over Ch'Grak's duties. I was employed just for this occasion, but I spoke to him earlier, and I know pretty much what they are."
The head servant pounced on that, as Alan had expected he would. "Yes, fine. If you need help, come to me." He spoke to another servant. "Confine Ch'Grak to his quarters until he has shobered up."
"Yes sir."
Te'Fat went out and Alan and Kurt entered the kitchen, with Fannir trailing discreetly along in the rear. Alan, from Ch'Grak's mind, knew exactly where the food cart would be located. He found it, confirmed via the comp that it was ready to go, and rolled it out of the kitchen.
And straight into a small cleaning closet. Kurt followed him a moment later, Fannir, a few minutes after that. Alan slid the door of the cart aside revealing a spacious area within, jammed with trays of food. Hastily, he shoved all the trays into three convenient shelves in the cleaning closet, Fannir and Kurt helping him, leaving only the one visible on the top of the cart, concealed neatly with a silver cover. Silverware and a fine, linen napkin completed the arrangement. Alan surveyed the results of his drastic rearrangement of the cart's contents, and nodded, satisfied.
With the trays gone, the interior of the cart was spacious and empty. Fannir and Kurt scrambled inside, and Alan surveyed the remaining space appraisingly. Plenty of room for a small Terran once one of the two got out, and he was certain Karl would be small. All psychics were.
He tossed the pillowcase full of clothing into a corner, gave his passengers a grin, and shut the door.
He guided the cart back out into the hallway and toward the lift. It floated easily along in front of him, and the lift opened obligingly as he approached. The cart passed smoothly on into the conveyance and Alan positioned himself in a corner, partially concealed from the other servants who had entered the lift with him. They proceeded upward.
Seventh level, Fannir had told them. Everyone was off the lift by the fourth. Around him, more faintly now, the walls still reverberated with the rock band's music. Lola was doing her job well.
Alan drew a deep breath and tried to slow his heartbeats. The next few moments were the crucial ones. If he could get through them, all would be well. The lift slowed, then came smoothly to a stop. The doors opened and Alan stepped forward, guiding the cart before him.
A hallway stretched ahead, and he could no longer hear the strains of rock music. He opened his shields a crack, ready to snap them shut if a Jilectan mind came too near. Ahead, very close now, he detected the aura of the young Terran psychic. The boy was a good one, no doubt about it.
Quickly, he slid open the cart door and gestured to the Arcturian.
"All right, Fannir, You wait here, out of camera range. There's a doorway right over there. Don't let anyone see you. I don't sense anyone around but Karl and the 'trols, so you should be safe. If you hear what sounds like trouble, come running. You know how to use a sleep gas pellet?"
"Yes, sir." The Arcturian grinned slightly, just showing the tips of his fangs. "Major McDougal explained it's use while we waited for you."
"Don't forget to hold your breath. We won't be able to carry you."
The Arcturian gave a peculiar hiss which Alan had learned was the alien equivalent of a laugh. "I shall not forget, sir."
"All right, then. It's show time." Alan closed the cart door, checked the location of the sleep pellet, straightened his shirt and belt, and, assuming an air of confidence he didn't feel, started in the direction of the psychic's mind.
He closed his shielding again as he reached a bend in the corridor and saw ahead of him the guardroom. He approached it, his nerves tingling. A man emerged from the doorway and strode toward him. Alan tensed lightly, one hand sliding down to grip the disguised stunner concealed in the pocket of his uniform jacket. The man, a Lieutenant from the stripe on his helmet, stopped beside him. "Hey you, hold on."
Alan stopped. This was Lieutenant Ruffard, of whom Fannir had spoken--"Very bright..." "Yes sir?"
"Where's Ch'Grak?"
"Uh... he's... indisposed at the moment, sir. I was told to take over his duties."
"Indisposed? How is he indisposed?"
Alan swallowed. "Uh... he got drunk, sir. He was caught drinking coffee in the lounge."
"Coffee!" The Lieutenant cursed under his breath. "When was this?"
"Just a few minutes ago, sir. Te'Fat--the head servant--told me to take over his duties. Have I done something wrong?"
The Lieutenant spoke a colorful cussword. "That brainless bird...!" He bit off the sentence, then turned on Alan. "How did you happen to know there was a tray supposed t'be brought up here?"
"Why, Ch'Grak told me, sir, just before he...went crazy. He said there was a Terran prisoner up here that he had to take a tray to."
Another soft cussword, and Ruffard's expression became grim. "What else did he tell you?"
Ruffard was an easy read, and Alan hardly had to crack his shields to pick up what he needed. "Well, he said the prisoner was a Terran psychic, and that he wasn't supposed to be talking about him, but that he was getting pretty sick of the boy's sharp tongue. He told me the kid threw food all over him at breakfast time, and if the Patrol guards hadn't stopped him, he'd have killed the boy. He was a little drunk already, I think, sir, because just a few minutes after that he went crazy and attacked a couple of people. He had to be confined to his room, and Te'Fat told me to take over his duties."
Lieutenant Ruffard drew a deep breath and regarded Alan resignedly. "Have you told anyone else what Ch'Grak told you, kid?"
"Of course not, sir."
"Think carefully. It's important. Anyone at all?"
Alan pretended to consider. "No sir, no one at all. I thought that if Ch'Grak wasn't supposed to be talking about it, I shouldn't, either."
"Okay, good." The officer's face relaxed slightly. "What's your name?"
"David Woodruff, sir." Alan produced his identification and credentials, supplied by the Underground. The officer examined them, then handed them back.
"Just hired for today, huh?"
"Yes sir."
"Okay, David, since you already know about this, and we're gonna need a replacement for Ch'Grak, it looks like you're the one. How would you like permanent work?"
"Very much, sir. You mean, you're hiring me?"
"If you can keep your mouth shut."
"Sir?"
"You'll be taking over the duties of that fool bird, but first you gotta know that the boy you're bringin' food to is top secret. No one's supposed t'know about him."
"But Ch'Grak..."
"Ch'Grak blew it, an' he's gonna pay."
"I... see, sir." Alan swallowed.
"You better. Listen to me, David. No one is to know about this prisoner. No one. Not your sweetheart or your best friend or your mom or dad. Got me? No one."
"I understand, sir."
Ruffard nodded. "I'll need to check out your credentials, and I'll talk to you more later. Right now I gotta go pay Ch'Grak a visit. You say he was confined to his room?"
Alan swallowed. "Yes sir. Are you...going to..."
"That is none of your business, Mr. Woodruff."
"He's probably still pretty drunk, sir. He had almost a whole cup of coffee."
Lieutenant Ruffard nodded shortly. "Get on with your duties, Mr. Woodruff." He spoke briefly into his helmet communicator and strode on past toward the lift.
Alan headed for the guardroom.
A quick scan told him there were five people there. He stepped into the room, the sleep pellet still clutched tightly in his hand. A man seated against the wall next to the door rose to his feet, pushing back the dark visor that concealed his eyes. "You David Woodruff?"
"Yes sir." Alan presented his I.D.
"Okay. Go on in."
Above the door to the room was the screen showing the interior of the prison.
It was exactly as Fannir had described it, and in one of the chairs the psychic boy was seated. He looked the typical psychic--small, slim and wiry. He was staring fixedly at the videoscreen. Alan located the camera within the room and concentrated. This might not work, of course. The guards might insist upon accompanying him into the room when the camera malfunctioned, but if they did, Alan would drop his sleep pellet. His own nose filters, positioned within his nostrils, would protect him from the effects.
Under the touch of a telekinetic finger a small but essential part of the videocamera came loose. The screen flickered abruptly and the picture dissolved into snow.
Two of the guards swore. One of the guards rose wearily to his feet. "Sarge, it's gone out again."
Sergeant Greisbach glanced around and cussed, too. "Get that incompetent maintenance ass up here again."
The man spoke into his throat mike. Alan hesitated, also watching the flickering screen. "Shall I take him his tray, sir, or do you want me to wait until it's fixed?"
"Naw, go ahead." The sarge sounded tired. "This is the fourth time today the useless thing's cut out."
"I still think that kid's doing it," another guard said.
"Psychics don't burn out circuits, stupid, they rip out wires an' things like that."
Boy, what luck, Alan thought. He guided the cart forward and pressed the button. The door slid open.
**********
Chapter 40
Edwin strode wearily on, Ellie in his arms. The little girl was utterly exhausted, and he felt little better. Karl's awakening had been succeeded by such a severe punishment for his treachery that Comishvor's chastisements seemed gentle by comparison. Ellie had at last cried herself to sleep and Ed had been carrying her ever since. It was morning again, the sun shining benignly through the towering branches above.
Ellie stirred in his arms, eyes flickering. She began to sob again almost at once.
"Easy. Easy honey."
"They're taking his friend away!" she wept. "They're going to kill him because of what Karl did!"
Edwin clutched her tightly against him, and gradually she became silent except for an occasional sniffle. Stephen came up beside them, glancing down at Ed.
"Want me to carry her awhile, Mr. White?"
"I want to walk," Ellie said. "Put me down, Mr. White."
Ed complied and she fell in beside him. Ed lowered his shields and instantly snapped them up again. There were Jils everywhere--so many of them that he wasn't sure he'd be able to detect Comishvor and the psychic boy even if they came within range. He increased his pace, ears open and listening. Voices ahead forced them into hiding. They waited until the Patrol squad had passed, then pressed on. Surely, he thought, it couldn't be much farther!
The sun had climbed to the zenith before Ellie spoke again. "Karl has a plan to get away."
Ed and the others stopped, watching her. The little girl's eyes had gone vacant again. "He's thinking about making an illusion to trick the Procyon who brings him his food."
So, Karl was an illusionist, too. Edwin felt a thrill of pride in the son he had never known.
"He's found out he can bust the screen they watch him on," Ellie informed them seriously. "He can do it any time he wants."
"He's a telekinetic?"
"No, no, it's something else. He blows all the circuits in the thing. He doesn't know exactly how he does it, but it works fine."
"What's he going to do?"
"He doesn't know for sure. He's worried about Fannir--his Arcturian friend. He's so mad, he doesn't care anymore."
Halthzor had pushed the boy too far, Ed realized. "Ellie, tell him we're coming to help! Tell him not to try it. Tell him to wait."
Her gaze met his, helplessly. "I can't, Mr. White. I've been trying. I've always tried, but Karl never hears me. I just hear him."
"Try again! Try now!"
The little girl concentrated. "He doesn't hear me, Mr. White!"
Ed sighed. "Come on! Let's hurry!"
Loreen came up beside him. "How much farther, Ed?"
"Not much." He took her hand. "Are you holding out okay?"
"Sure." She looked uneasy for a moment. "Ed, I keep hearing Cory's voice."
"What?"
"Three or four times in the past hour. Remember what I told you before?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, it's sort of like that, but not the same. He sounds faint, like he's not quite conscious, and the words aren't making much sense, but it's his voice. I'm sure of it. It's like he's in a deep pool of water and he's trying to get to the surface and calling for help." Her eyes were troubled. "Am I a psychic, Ed? I mean, you and Cory are both telepaths, and you both seem to communicate with me.--even though I can't hear Cory as well as I hear you. Ellie receives from Karl, and Karl, well, he must be a telepath, or he couldn't read Arcturian minds.. Maybe I'm a receiver like Ellie. Maybe that's where she got her psychic powers from."
"But you're not a psychic, honey. I'd know it if you were. There's no psychic energy in you."
She grimaced. "I'm hearing him again, Ed." A pause. "He's waking up, I think. Talking to someone...Now it's fading out." She looked at him, helplessly. "Ed, I'm not imagining it!"
Edwin lowered his shields, disregarding the many Jilectan minds near at hand, and concentrated. *Cory! Cory, do you hear me?*
Nothing. No flicker from his friend's mind. Cory's shields were tightly in place. Could it have been imagination on Loreen's part? If so, it had been very accurate imagination concerning Lord Trashvor. Something here just didn't make sense, with everything he thought he knew about psychic powers. On the other hand...
A new thought occurred suddenly to him, and he considered it for several minutes, turning it over in his mind. Everything he knew about psychics he had learned from Comishvor. The pirate was a psychic, all right, but a *Jilectan* psychic. Was it possible that there was something about Terran psychics that was somehow different from Jilectans, something that Comishvor didn't know?
After all, there was still Ellie to be explained. By all the laws he understood, the little girl could not possibly be a psychic, and yet she was. Could it be that Loreen *was* a psychic--a different sort, perhaps, whose powers somehow could not be detected, perhaps not even used? It would certainly explain a lot of things that otherwise simply could not be.
He closed his shields, wincing at the feel of another Jilectan mind. The alien had missed his shot and was railing at his servants for alerting the quarry. Loreen was still looking worriedly at him. He gave her a small grin.
"Well, if Cory's coming to, and he's with the Underground, we'll know in a little while." He glanced around. "You know, I think we're getting close. I've been thinking so for a while."
The day wore on. Gradually the ground was becoming rockier. They must be very near the ship by now, though how he knew, he couldn't say. The feeling simply existed that they were nearing their goal. They reached a rocky wall and abruptly he knew that somewhere along this wall was the cave that concealed their ship. He turned instinctively to the right and strode forward. The sun was sinking behind the western horizon now and twilight settled over the forest. Ellie was stumbling with fatigue, and Stephen paused to pick her up.
As he set her on his shoulders, Ellie turned to look at Ed, her face paling.
"I don't feel well, Mr. White."
**********
(tbc)
