Joker: Part 7
by Linda Garrick and Nancy Smith
9
Paul Carson stumbled into his quarters, both hands pressed over his eyes. Something was terribly, terribly wrong here. He was imagining things; he must be! He had to be going crazy!
"Paul!" Rachael's voice cried in his mind. "Help me!"
Hands were yanking his wrists behind him. He felt the heavy weight of a body crushing him. It was horribly vivid! Poor little Rachael. Her terrified face remained before him, and her voice continued to call him. This was ridiculous! Insane.
His communicator beeped. "Carson, this is Bell."
Carson slapped the unit beside his bed. "Yes sir?"
"I need you to assist with the shore parties. They're having difficulties. Those two damned Underground agents must've blown the whistle on us before we arrived, 'cause we're meeting a lot of resistance. Also, we've received orders to halt the executions until Slinthvor arrives to examine the agents. Don't kill anybody unless it becomes necessary in order to protect your life."
"Yes sir," Carson said. "You sure they're Undergrounders, sir?"
"As sure as I can be. We're checking them through the computer now. Should have an answer soon. Get going, Paul."
"Yes sir." Carson headed for the door, Rachael's voice continued to call him.
He tried his best to ignore it, striding briskly out of his quarters and toward the lift. Patrolmen passed him, saluting smartly. Carson arrived at the sixth deck and exited the lift in time to see Rachael being dragged aboard. She wasn't making a sound, but in his mind her voice continued to call. To his fury, Carson saw that Murphy and his companion had removed the tunic he had placed on her.
It shouldn't bother him, Carson told himself firmly. She was, after all, a very pretty girl, and patrolmen were hardly known for their celibacy. They were doing their job, and the fact that they were enjoying it while they did shouldn't bother him.
He went down the boarding ramp and toward the aircar which was waiting for him. Three patrolmen were already aboard and awaiting his arrival. Carson settled himself in the rear seat. "Let's go."
They rose smoothly into the air and headed toward the town. The patrolmen were silent, the death of Snilthvar casting an air of solemnity over them all. It was not, of course,, that anyone had liked the guy, or in any way mourned his passing. Jil's were hated even by those who served them, but everyone on the ship knew, Carson better than anyone, what would happen when Snilthvar's father arrived. The Jils did not take kindly to the death of one of their kin. The chances were good that Subcommander Carson, who had been in the capacity of bodyguard when Snilthvar had died, would be in poor condition very shortly after his arrival. The fact that the Subcommander had managed to apprehend the murderer was the only thing that might save him. But Rachael--poor little Rachael--would have to bear the brunt of the alien's anger.
The aircar purred softly across fields of waving cornstalks. It was mid-afternoon now, and the air that wafted through the open window was very warm. Balka was a balmy planet--the type the Jils preferred, Carson thought. After the colonists were wiped out, the world would be settled by the alien race in another attempt to accommodate their ever expanding population.
Rachael's voice had ceased to call, but he could still see her face before him. Why should her plight bother him so much? Not because she was a woman. He had delivered many female prisoners to his masters in the past, and their beauty or their tears had never affected his treatment of them at all. It was his job, and why the Jils wanted a prisoner had nothing to do with him.
The car's communicator crackled, and a voice emerged form the unit. "Sergeant Brown to Carson, come in."
"Carson here, Brown."
"We're due east of you, and need immediate assistance. A bunch of colonists've barricaded themselves in the church, here, and we're having a helluva time."
"Be right there." Carson signaled the driver, who sent the aircar down in a slow circle toward the steeple rising above the rest of the buildings.
Rachael screamed.
The cry rang through Carson bringing a startled exclamation from him. Large, powerful hands grasped his wrists, bringing him upright. She was struggling, and once more a scream rang in his ears. The other occupants of the aircar were looking at him, their expressions concerned.
"Are you okay, sir?" the man beside him asked quickly.
"Help! Help me!" Utter terror and the sensation of mighty hands crushing him downward on a firm surface. A brutal hand clamped over his mouth, and he felt Rachael's frantic attempts to bite the man's fingers. A sudden slap made his ears ring.
"Back to the ship!" he shouted. "Bergman, take us back to the ship!"
"But why, sir? And what about Sergeant Brown?"
"Dammit! Step on it! Do as I say!"
The patrolman did, his expression mystified. The aircar shot like an arrow back toward the battlecruiser.
Someone was ripping at his clothing. Carson felt it with a sense of horror and desperation. The car settled before the ship, and instantly he was out, ignoring the patrolmen's queries. He sprinted up the ramp, knocking aside two men who were just exiting, and charged down the corridor toward the lift. A mouth was against his, seeking. Rachael was still fighting, her movements weaker now, but Carson could sense her horror and revulsion. He leaped aboard the lift and jammed his thumb against the control to signal the fifth level. The conveyance moved downward with maddening slowness.
He bolted through the sluggishly parting doors and sprinted down a corridor. The doors of Rachael's prison opened and he charged through.
Murphy lay atop the girl, his pants half off, helmet on the deck beside him. The other guard jumped aside at the sight of Carson, his jaw dropping.
Carson leaped forward, dragged Murphy upright and swung. The patrolman spun away to slam against one wall. Carson strode forward, grabbed him again and jerked him to his feet. He hit the man again. Then a third time. Then a fourth.
Murphy lay still on the deck, and Carson spun on the other guard. "Put him in the brig."
The patrolman gaped at him. "But sir --"
"And you're on report, Gomes, for standing by and allowing such a thing!"
"But sir, I wouldn't have let him hurt her ...." The man's protest was weak. "We've been sort of a while without women, you know, sir."
"Get him out of here!"
"But -- the prisoner!"
"I'll watch her. Move!"
Gomes obeyed, dragging Murphy from the room. The door slid shut behind him.
Rachael lay huddled on the cot, her bare skin glowing in the soft lighting. She wore only a filmy pair of panties, which Murphy had succeeded in tearing partially away. Her eyes were closed and she sobbed hysterically.
"Rachael! Rachael, honey!" Carson stripped off his own shirt, covering her with it. Her eyes opened, focusing on him.
"Paul!" she sobbed. "Oh, Paul!"
He lifted her, quickly removing her restrainers. She threw herself into his arms, the shirt slipping away, and he felt her naked breasts against his bare skin. He held her gently and tenderly, smoothing her hair as she clung to him, sobbing against his shoulder. Feelings tore at him, and he felt himself shiver at their intensity. Slowly she became quiet, her body still tight against his. Her hair smelled faintly of moonroses, mixed with sweat.
"Rachael --" His voice was choked and he had to clear his throat. "I'm sorry, honey. I didn't know he'd try something like that."
She nodded, straightening up, and apparently becoming suddenly aware of the proximity of their bodies. "I know."
He pulled his shirt around her, trying to make his movements businesslike. "You all right now?"
She nodded, wiping her eyes. Carson stood up, retrieving the torn pair of shorts from the deck and tossing them to her. She slipped them on, and sealed the front of Carson's overflowing shirt. She was speaking under her breath, words Carson could not make out. He leaned closer. "What'd you say, honey?"
She looked up, then lifted her arms toward him pleadingly. "Don't leave me alone, Paul! Please don't leave me alone! Please don't leave me again!"
He recoiled, a knot of pain tightening within him. What was wrong with him? what was causing this incredible need to protect this girl? The thought of interrogating her now was more than he could bear. The conviction rose in him that he could not let it happen.
But he had no choice! What the Jil did was his own business-- not Carson's. Subcommander Carson would certainly be in no position to plead with Slinthvor on behalf of this lovely young prisoner.
Rachael stood up. "Please, Paul!"
He recoiled still further, drawing his blaster. "Keep back, honey!" he snapped.
She paused, her face changing. "I see." Her voice had become scornful. "You didn't want him to hurt me, and that's why you interfered. The Jil would be mad if I wasn't in good shape for the interrogation."
Her words stabbed him. Through force of will Carson gestured with the blaster again. "Sit down."
She obeyed, her lovely face disdainful. The door slid open and four patrolmen entered. Carson turned toward them.
"Get the cuffs back on her, and guard her carefully."
"Yes sir." The nearest man, a patrolman first class, saluted. Carson's gaze swept him, then the remainder of the men.
"Patrolman Murphy is in the brig, and that is exactly where you will be if any one of you attempts any familiarities with this young woman. She is clever and dangerous. Keep your distance."
The first classer went toward her, picked up the restrainers from the bunk and fastened Rachael's wrists behind her. She didn't resist, her eyes fixed on Carson with contempt.
Carson turned and went out. One of the guards outside the door grinned as the panel slid shut. "How'd it go, sir?"
Carson glanced at him sharply. "What do you mean?"
The man's grin widened. "Watch yourself, sir. She's clever, that one. Used to know girls like her in Knitsmye. They could squeeze anythin' they wanted from a guy, just by puttin' on the female charm. She's an expert."
Carson glowered at the man, realizing the other had noticed his missing shirt. "Murphy had ripped her clothes off. I gave her something to wear, that's all."
The man shrugged, still grinning. "Of course, sir."
Carson strode down the corridor, cussing between his teeth. What the devil had happened to him? Was he a psychic? Was that how Rachael was able to communicate with him so easily? She certainly was one--of that fact he no longer held any doubt. But was it possible for psychics to communicate with non-psychics telepathically?
He didn't know, but there were two people aboard this ship who would know. Two suspected Undergrounders -- possible psychics themselves.
10
Jason Llwelling glanced up as the door to the room slid aside. A tall man, clad in the breeches and boots of a patrolman entered, helmet in one hand. Two guards followed him in and then came smartly to attention when he glanced at them. They saluted.
The newcomer casually returned the salute, his attention all for Jason and Lisa. "These are the Undergrounders?" he inquired briskly.
"Yes sir."
The man gestured to the guards. "Go back to your posts. I want to question them alone."
The guards saluted again, beginning to withdraw. "Be careful, sir," one advised. "They've been identified. The guy is Jason Llwelling and the woman is Lisa Wilkins. They're both known to be psychics."
"Thanks." The officer waved vaguely to the guards again. "They won't be able to do much with the restrainers on. You can go."
The guards exited, and the newcomer approached the force field where Jason was imprisoned, pressing the control to deactivate the barrier. It vanished, and Jason came warily to his feet. He was sensing emotions in the officer, turbulent, very troubled emotions.
"Mr. Llwelling, I'm Subcommander Carson." The man's voice spoke of self assurance and authority, but his emotions were quite different. Subcommander Carson was confused and somewhat frightened.
Jason came slowly forward, meeting the other man's eyes squarely. "Yes, Subcommander? Is there something I can do for you?"
The officer grinned faintly, obviously rather amused at the prisoner's formal reply. He sobered abruptly. "I need to ask a few questions, Mr. Llwelling."
Jase felt his heart turn over. An interrogation with Lisa watching was not what he would have hoped for. He spoke telepathically to her. *No matter what he does, you keep quiet, Lisa. Understand?*
*It's okay.* Her mental voice spoke promptly in reply. *I don't think he's going to hurt you. Read him.*
Llwelling did, and comprehension dawned. Subcommander Carson's mind was pathetically easy to read. There was no resistance worthy of the name. His thoughts became instantly clear -- the cause of the puzzlement, fear and confusion. This was the chance they had been hoping for -- one that no one could have predicted. If he could convince the officer of the truth. Of course, if he couldn't, circumstances would very likely do the job for them in the very near future.
Carson was speaking. "Don't be afraid, Mr. Llwelling. I'm not going to ask you anything of terrible consequence."
Jason nodded. "I'll answer you if I can, sir." He waited, already knowing the question.
Here it came. "Is it possible for psychics to communicate telepathically with non-psychics?"
He glanced at Lisa. The existence of the psychic power pack -- a psychic born without the existence of the hereditary control factor -- was a guarded secret of the Underground. But it looked to him as though Subcommander Carson was one such individual, and if the Jils got their hands on young Rachael and read her well, the link she held with Carson would be discovered anyway, and the secret would come out.
The Subcommander was waiting, tapping one booted foot impatiently. Llwelling cleared his throat.
"Uh -- no, sir, not usually."
"I see." Carson looked away, lips forming into a thin line. "Then is it possible for a Terran's natural shielding to be so good that another psychic would be unable to detect that he was a psychic?"
Llwelling almost laughed, and he heard Lisa's faint giggle from behind her force field. "I think you'd better tell him the truth, Jase," she said. "Better that he learn it from us than the Jils."
Carson's face turned sharply toward her. "What do you mean?"
Jason took a step closer to the Subcommander. "Sir, there's an exception to the rule about psychics only communicating telepathically with other psychics. I believe you are one such exception."
"Explain!" Carson snapped.
"We know of three other such instances. The psychic, in times of stress, seems able to call the non-psychic for help. The call is very intense, and the non will be compelled to answer. They're linked, so to speak, but the link is unconscious on both sides. However, anything that happens to the person you're linked with will be transmitted to you -- all sensations, fear, and pain."
Carson was stark white. "That's impossible! You're lying!"
"I'm not lying." Jason took another step forward. "When Mrs. Winslow is interrogated her fear will cause the link to form automatically. And everything she experiences during that interrogation will be sent straight to you."
Carson took a step back. "You're lying! That can't be!"
"I've seen it happen, Subcommander! Remember Subcommander Bronson when he helped rescue Alan Westover on interstellar video? That's what happened with him! He had to shoot Tralthvor to save his own neck! You'd better get out of it now -- before the interrogation starts!"
"But what can I do? Holy space! There's no way I can stop that damned Jil!"
"Get her away, sir. We'll take you to the Underground. They'll protect you."
Carson grabbed his shoulders, shaking him fiercely. Jason's teeth rattled, and he heard Lisa's cry of alarm faintly in his mind.
"You're lying! You're just trying to con me into letting you go!" Carson lifted a fist, and Jason flinched away.
But the Subcommander didn't strike him. Instead the fist dropped and Carson released his prisoner abruptly, shoving him back. Jason stumbled, going to his knees and bruising them. Lisa's face was pressed tightly against the force field. "Jase!" she cried. "Are you all right?"
"Fine, honey." He got painfully to his feet, biting back a groan. Carson was staring at the bulkhead and chewing his lower lip. Llwelling retreated, trying to be patient. He knew the man's emotions must run their course, and that eventually he would see the light. But it was hard to be patient, knowing that the Jilectan would be here so soon.
As though in echo to his thought, Carson's communicator bleeped. "Bell to Carson. Come in."
Carson lifted the helmet as though in a daze. "Yes sir?"
"Return to the ship at once. His Lordship's yacht just came out of hyperspace. He'll be here in twenty minutes."
Jason swallowed. "Subcommander, listen to me."
Carson grabbed him by the collar, lifting him from the deck by sheer muscle. Jason choked.
"Shut up!" Carson carried him back to the cell and almost threw him inside. He landed hard and for a moment he struggled for breath. Faintly he heard Lisa's voice, pleading with the Subcommander to listen.
Carson did not seem to hear her. He strode across the room and out. The two guards saluted again as he exited and resumed their positions beside the door.
11
Subcommander Carson sprinted down the corridor toward the lift. Rachael's face floated before him vividly, tear streaked and terrified. Carson looked frantically around. He must be alone! He had to think! The Undergrounder must have been lying! What that small, insignificant boy had told him could not possibly be true! Undergrounders were notoriously clever. Other patrolmen beside Bronson had succumbed to them. Strike Commander Linley was the most famous of these, but Bronson ran a close second and Carson had been one of Bronson's friends. Could what was happening to Carson possibly be similar to what had happened to Bronson -- good dependable Kevin Bronson? The man had apparently gone crazy in the middle of a very important execution, had killed a Jilectan and kidnapped the Viceroy on public video before the astounded eyes of trillions watching the broadcast from one end of the Sector to the other. It would have to have taken quite a stimulus for Bronson to have done such a thing!
Carson ducked into his quarters and began to tear off the remainder of his uniform. A cold shower was what he needed -- something to blot out the memory of Rachael's soft skin and silken hair against his chest. Carson shed his boots and breeches and headed for the bathroom.
The shock of cold water cleared his head. He let it pour over him, taking deep breaths, and trying to erase Rachael's lovely features from his mind.
It didn't work. Her face became clearer than ever, her voice continuing to call him, becoming more urgent. Someone rapped on the bathroom door, and Carson jumped.
"Yeah?"
"Strike Commander's valet, sir. He sent me up to find you. Lord Slinthvor 's here, and they're about to start the interrogation. Strike Commander Bell wants you to take charge of the ship while he's tied up."
"All right." Carson turned off the water and stepped from the shower. The Strike Commander's valet, John LaCrosse peered around the door. Carson emerged, wiping himself dry, and tossing the towel to the valet. LaCrosse caught it skillfully and dropped it into a laundry chute. A fresh uniform, Carson saw, lay on his bunk, and the valet knelt, rubbing the toes of his dress boots.
"Are you okay, sir?" he asked tentatively.
"Yeah. Get out of here, John. I'd rather be alone."
John was a good valet. He didn't hover or protest, but went quietly from the room, the door closing behind him. Carson began to pull on his uniform, cursing to himself as Rachael's voice called him desperately.
She was being taken to the Jil. Carson could sense the movement. Poor kid -- the poor little kid! Slinthvor would half kill her before he finished, no doubt. Carson slicked his hair down and jammed a foot into his left boot.
"I'm not an Underground agent!" Rachael's voice spoke in his brain, shrill with terror. "I don't know anything! Please don't hurt me! No!"
She was struggling frantically now as strong hands dragged her forward. Carson felt as though it was happening to him, the hard, unyielding straps pinning his arms to the chair. With a sense of unreality he waited, the second boot in one hand.
A shock of pain coursed through him, and he gave a yell of surprise, doubling over. Another shock made him fall to his knees, clutching his gut. Terror encompassed him, and suddenly he understood very well why Kevin Bronson had done what he had done -- why he had become so ill during the trip from Parquola to Corala, and his final, incredible action before the videocameras on the execution platform. He had been linked with Alan Westover, just like Carson was linked with Rachael Winslow.
A third shock, stronger this time. In his mind he heard Rachael scream, and he echoed her, sagging forward onto his hands and knees. He must do something! Slowly the pain lessened, leaving him shaking uncontrollably. The Commander wanted him to take charge of the cruiser while the interrogation was proceeding. But he couldn't -- not like this! And even if he managed to hold out until the interrogation was completed, Slinthvor would almost certainly want to see him afterward to question him in regards to the death of the Jil's son. He had to do something before then.
A fourth shock coursed through him, then a fifth. Rachael's voice screamed in his mind, pleading with him to help her. Faintly a voice spoke in the background, and he heard her hysterical reply, confessing to everything the Jilectan asked. Another wash of pain, and abruptly his contact with her was fading.
Carson lurched to his feet, jammed his foot into the boot, pulled on his helmet and staggered for the door. The Underground agents would help him. They must! And somehow he had to get to them while Rachael was still unconscious. If he waited until they revived her, he would be unable to function.
Knees wobbling, he sprinted down the corridor toward the lift. The ship was all but deserted, most of the patrolmen now ashore joining in their attempts to subdue the citizens. Carson grabbed an antigrav cart holding a stack of dirty dishes from outside the Strike Commander's quarters, and pushed it ahead of him down the corridor. LaCross would be puzzled when he arrived to take the dishes to the mess, but that was none of his business. Carson guided the cart aboard the lift and signaled for the fifth level.
A shock jolted his muscles, and he cursed lividly as Rachael's face appeared before him again. They had revived her, damn them! Now it would all begin again.
The lift came to a stop and he shoved the cart out and down the hall toward the room where the Undergrounders were being held. A voice spoke somewhere in the background of his mind, then Rachael's reply, shrill with terror. "Yes! Yes, I'm an Underground agent! I warned the colony! Yes I'm in league with the other ones! Don't hurt me any more -- please! I'll say anything you want!"
Damn the damn Jill! Carson cursed between his teeth. He must know by now that the poor kid didn't know anything! He was simply prolonging the interrogation for revenge -- revenge upon the little upstart Terran who had dared defend herself against her almighty overlords. Funny, how different the whole situation seemed now than it had twenty four hours ago.
Rachael screamed, just before Carson rounded the corner, still pushing the loaded antigrav cart before him. He stopped, sagging against the bulkhead, struggling to stay silent.
The pain retreated. He thought Rachael had fainted again. He heaved himself upright, wiping away the rivulets of sweat that ran down his face. This had to end now, before he became completely incapacitated. He might have a few minutes before they revived her, but the respite would be short.
Throwing back his shoulders, he stepped around the corner.
Before him was the room containing the Underground prisoners. The same two guards stood before the entrance, and Carson jerked his head toward the door. "Open it."
They obeyed, expressions puzzled. Carson motioned them ahead of him, then strode into the room behind them, and Carson had a glimpse of Jason Llwelling coming to his feet, his eyes wide with full comprehension. The door slid shut.
Carson drew his blaster, flipped it to stun and fired twice.
The patrolmen, their backs toward him, never saw what happened. They collapsed to the deck. Carson turned, strode out of the room, retrieved the antigrav cart, and re-entered, jamming his thumb against the control to de-activate the force fields. The two psychics stepped from their cells, their hands still secured behind them. Neither seemed particularly surprised.
"Turn around, quick." Carson flipped his blaster to needle beam, and employed the weapon to cut the restrainers from Llwelling's wrists.
"Put them in the cells," Carson directed, his voice shaking. He seized one if the men by the wrists and dragged him into the cell. Llwelling did the same with the other man. Carson stunned them a second time and activated the energy fields, sealing them in.
"We have to move," he said. "She fainted, but they'll bring her around any minute. Get into the cart."
The dishes occupied only the top half of the cart. Without speaking, the woman slid onto the second shelf, where she curled up like a baby. Llwelling slid onto the bottom shelf, and quickly Carson spread the cloth over the cart, completely concealing them. Then he opened the door and wheeled them from the room.
He had reached the lift when he felt the jolt of pain again. Rachael had been revived. Her voice screamed his name, pleading with him to help.
Somehow, although he never could recall exactly how, Carson made it to his quarters. He stumbled through, still shoving the cart before him, and half collapsed to the deck. Jason scrambled from the shelf and knelt beside him. The woman, her hands still fastened behind her, squirmed from her shelf and fell to her knees next to her companion.
Carson felt a tug at his holster through the waves of agony, and heard the faint hiss of the needle beam. Then two pairs of hands were helping him struggle to his feet, half-carrying him toward his bunk.
He collapsed across it with a scream as agony jolted through him again, before the previous pain had even diminished. Contact faded out.
For a moment he lay limp and trembling, cold sweat bathing his skin. A wet cloth wiped his face, and Carson opened his eyes to see the woman's face above him looking worried and sympathetic.
"Have they stopped?" she inquired softly.
Carson groaned, feeling slightly nauseated. She sponged his face, her hands very gentle.
Llwelling bent over him, loosening the neck of his uniform. "Take some deep breaths, sir," he advised.
Carson did, and slowly the room righted. The two psychics were watching him silently.
"They must have stopped," Llwelling said suddenly. "What's going on, sir? Is she still in contact with you?"
Carson shook his head. "She's unconscious." His voice sounded rusty and old. "She's fainted three times. He's gonna kill her if he doesn't stop soon. We've got to help her!"
The two psychics looked at each other, then back at him. "Are you willing to help us, Subcommander?" Llwelling asked. "Are you going to join the Underground?"
Carson nodded. "Yeah. I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
"Not really. If she dies, the chances are good that it would kill you." Llwelling gave him a brief humorless smile. "All right. I have it worked out, but we're going to need your help." He glanced around. "Where's the atmosphere contamination alarm system located?"
"In Engineering. And there's a backup in the Jil's quarters, of course," Carson replied.
Llwelling grinned with more humor this time. "Of course. That makes it a bit easier."
An alarm went off, and Carson felt his already taut nerves spasm. Llwelling hardly moved a muscle.
"We've been missed," he said. "Now they'll be looking for us. Subcommander, we'll need your help to get to the Jil's quarters. Dress as a regular patrolman . Get rid of those stripes and the nameplate. Hurry. And Subcommander--"
"Yeah?"
"Can you get hold of a carton of cigarettes for me?"
Carson stared at him, suddenly realizing what the psychic had in mind. "Yeah, I sure can."
"Good. Do it. We'll wait for you here."
Carson grinned faintly. "Yes sir!"
"Jase --" Lisa interrupted suddenly. She looked uneasy.
Llwelling sobered at once. "What's the matter, honey?"
She glanced over her shoulder toward the door. "I have a bad feeling."
Carson tensed. "Premonition? Is the Jil coming?"
"We don't know," Llwelling replied abstractedly. "It's impossible to use telepathy or clairvoyance with our shields up. But I think they're probably searching the ship for us, and apparently Rachael's still unconscious. They must've quit the questioning to look for us. Let's get to cover. Subcommander, you'd better go get those cigarettes. Remember, if those two guards have talked, they're going to be looking for you. Be careful, be ready for any questions, and for heaven's sake steer clear of that Jil. He won't have any trouble reading you; that's for sure. You're mind's open and broadcasting."
He nodded. "You're the boss." He glanced around the room. "Can you find a place to hide while I'm gone?"
Llwelling nodded. "We'll be fine."
Carson grinned suddenly. They were such insignificant looking people -- so drastically different from the huge, magnificently robed Jilectans. And yet, somehow, he felt confident that they would do exactly what they said. He went out, seeing the search parties coming along the corridor. They passed him, saluting smartly. Carson returned the salute, hoping devoutly that Jase and Lisa would manage to hide when his quarters were searched.
**********
tbc
