This is one of the earlier stories of the Terran Underground series. I was asked by one reader about Janice Westover's story. This is it.
For anyone wishing a background on the setting for this story, go here: http://www.lcficmbs.com/ubb/ultimatebb.php?ubb=get_topic;f=4;t=000002
and read the introduction. That should give you all the information you need.
PAWN: Part 1/4
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Copyright statement: This is an original work by the authors. Any resemblance to any person, living, dead or fictional, is unintentional and coincidental. The writers retain all rights to this work, and the copyright may not be infringed.
Emma Connors, Assistant Manager of Finnian's Imports, Terra, looked up as her husband, Phil, entered the room, a little boy perched on his hip. The videoscreen had been turned on, tuned to one of the Autonomy's stations, and the news was being broadcast.
"...By the Terran Underground," the announcer was saying. "478 persons have been executed, by order of the Jilectan Viceroy, and the planet is now banned to Terran colonization..."
"We lost Tanya and Larry in that," Phil said. "And their little girls."
"Was the Underground involved?" Emma was in tears. "I didn't know anything about it!"
"No," Connors said, grimly. "That stinking Viceroy knows it, too."
The announcer was continuing. "A Terran psychic by the name of Lauren Von Husen claimed responsibility for the bombing. However, when interrogated, this person was found to be unconnected with the incident. His confession was apparently an attempt to save the Terrans of Regash II, since His Highness had decreed that if the saboteur did not come forward all members of the colony would die. Von Husen's attempt to obstruct justice will be punished by public execution. This event will be broadcast over all the networks tomorrow morning at 0900 hours. It is required viewing for all Terrans by order of the Jilectan Viceroy, His Highness, Lord Lanthzor..."
Connors switched it off.
Emma wiped her eyes. "Poor Von Husen. Do you suppose the Underground..."
"They'll try, of course," Phil said. "But I doubt it." He swore suddenly and luridly. "The Viceroy knows we weren't connected with this! It wouldn't make sense to sabotage a military base like that when there's a colony on the planet! The boss'd know the Jils would have everybody killed. It was probably the work of some small, fanatical group, but good old Lanthzor sees it as an opportunity to make us look like the bad guys--too cowardly to come forward and take our medicine. Hell!"
**********
Chapter One
Ed Quade, bartender and manager of the Chelari Bar and Grill in the city of Loquin, looked up at the tinkle of the bell which announced the first customers of the day. It was early afternoon on this part of Riskell, but there were usually customers all day long at the small establishment. Not so today. It had been unusually quiet--a fact that made the barkeep a little uneasy.
The customers were Arcturians, dressed lightly considering the weather, their only concession to the cold being the long, hooded capes which swirled about their feet in the blast of icy air that entered with them before the door swung shut. The Arcturians were a warm-blooded species, superficially resembling the reptiles of Terra with their scaled hides, but in actuality they were unlike anything Terra had ever produced.
One of them removed his cloak, folding it neatly over one arm. Beneath it he wore a light blue flight suit--the uniform of a pilot, probably for some small businessman. He held his companion's arm and assisted him to a seat in a manner which made Quade suspect that the second being might have had a drop too much. The Arcturian settled himself in a chair, sinking his scaled head onto his arm. His crest hung limply to the side.
The pilot strode over to the bar and rested his flexible, jointless arms on the counter. Quade stopped wiping the surface of the bar with a cloth of indifferent cleanliness and approached.
"What'll it be?"
"Two Shallock Sepo brandiess," the alien replied, meeting Quade's eyes with his yellow ones, the slitted pupils reminding the barkeep, as they always did, of a Terran cat.
Quade stiffened slightly, surveying the being with more interest. Carefully, he replied with the second part of the formula. "They are unfortunately out of stock. May I recommend Paroli Liqueur in its place? It is of comparable quality."
The alien's crest quivered slightly, a mannerism of the species that Quade had learned meant mild amusement. "Ze quality of Paroli Liqueur is not to be questioned," he said, "but I prefer Terran Napoleon Brandy."
Quade nodded. "Come into the back."
"You will have to help me," the Arcturian replied. "My companion iss wounded."
Quade rounded the bar at once and helped the pilot lift the other alien to his feet. Close up, Quade could see that the unsteadiness he had thought to be intoxication was caused by pain and weakness. The Arcturian was trembling in every limb, his legs almost unable to support him. The slitted pupils were widely dilated and as they lifted him to his feet he gave a barely audible moan. Quade and the pilot helped him into the back room and supported him to a sofa.
The alien nearly collapsed onto the pillows and Quade went to get the medical kit. When he returned the pilot had his companion stretched out face down on the cushions, his cloak and tunic removed. Quade glanced at the black and scarlet uniform of a Viceregal patrolman and raised an eyebrow but went to work without a word, peeling away the scorched fabric from the Arcturian's left arm. The pilot assisted him without speaking as he applied regenerative salve and bandages.
When they had finished, Quade snapped the kit shut and motioned the pilot to a chair. "Now, do you mind telling me what this is all about?"
The alien nodded in a very Terran fashion and seated his tall form in an overstuffed armchair.
"I am Dannar," he began. "I am a pilot for a trader who makes many runs to zee heavily populated Shilectan worlds. I am also a traveling ashent for zee Terran Underground, in which I hold zee rank of captain. I maintain my own spy network, zee ashents of which report directly to me." He glanced at his injured comrade. "Passir is one of zem. He was zee aide of zee Base Commander at zee Loquin Patrol Station."
Quade raised an eyebrow. "Good position," he remarked. "I wondered how we were always kept so well informed about Commander Marshall's activities. How was he spotted? I take it he *was* spotted?"
Dannar's muzzle moved forward slightly. "He was spotted, but we do not know how. He swears zere was no..."
Passir lifted his head from the cushions. "Zere was no way I could have been spotted." The sibilant voice was weak, but clear. "I learned zings in zee course of my shob and passed zem to Dannar from memory. Zere was no evidence to betray me. A squad of zee Patrol was sent to arrest me, but I was fortunate. I overheard zee order on zee Commander's videophone, on which I have a tap."
"Perhaps the tap," Quade began.
"Zee tap was not discovered. I am sure of zat. And even if it was, zere was still no way zey could have traced it to me. I stole zee Commander's aircar shust in time and escaped. I do not know...but zere are some very stranshe rumors circulating at zee station..."
Quade frowned as he listened to the Arcturian's story. At this juncture a young woman entered with a tray of food considered most delectable by Arcturians. Quade tried not to look at it. "What rumors?"
"Zere are several," Passir replied. "Most of zem are quite silly, but one of zem has dansherous implications. Zere is some speculation zat one of ze Shils has learned to read Arcturians."
Quade's head jerked up. "Are you serious?"
The Arcturian's muzzle moved forward, denoting displeasure. "I do not know. I hope not. It would be most inconvenient."
Dannar's muzzle had also moved forward. "Ziss is disturbing news..."
"Were there any Jils nearby today? Did any come near enough that they might have read you--presuming what you heard is true?" Quade demanded.
Passir turned restlessly on his side, crest raising slightly. "Let me zink..."
There was a long silence, then Passir nodded. "A Shilectan passed my aircar in front of zee Commander's office ziss morning."
"Who was it?"
Passir's crest was standing up straight. "It was Halzzor."
There was a silence.
"Did he stop? Did you have any indication he was looking at you?"
Passir was silent for another moment. "He was wiz a group of zee Patrol. I did not look at him, except for a second, but I do not zink he stopped. Azz I recall, he went right on by."
"That doesn't make sense." Quade shook his head. "If one of the Jils has learned to read Arcturians, Halthzor's the logical one -- since he's so blasted powerful anyway. But..."
The door opened and the young woman who had brought the tray entered. "We just got a report in, Ed."
Quade came to his feet at the expression on her face. "What is it, Sharon?"
"Bonnar was spotted, somehow. The Patrol cornered him." She stopped.
"Did they pick him up?" Quade demanded in alarm.
Sharon shook her head. "No. They had him cornered. He apparently set his blaster on emergency overload. He was stunned, and when they moved in to collect him..." She stopped and took a deep breath. "He took the whole squad with him," she finished.
Quade clenched his jaw. "Good for old Bonnar," he said. He looked back at Passir and Dannar. "Something odd's going on, that's for sure. This is the third incident today. The other report came in from the Frazeen Station, north of here. Two of our best Arcturian agents on the base were arrested, but managed to fight their way out. They arrived at the station injured, but alive..." He scowled at the rug. "These incidents have got to be connected. Bonnar was one of our top agents in the Patrol."
Passir nodded. "I knew him, alzough I did not know he was wiz zee Underground. Ziss is not good..."
Quade glanced at the woman again. "Sharon, get out a general alert to all our Arcturian agents on Riskell. They're to be especially on their guard until further notice. Then send a message to the station on Troth. Last report I had was that Westover and Linley were there. Maybe we can catch 'em in time..."
**********
Chapter Two
"If that's a chronometer," Alan Westover said, "then I'm a two headed Arcturian tripper. It's got so much stuff on it I don't see how you're ever going to tell what time it is."
Mark Linley looked offended. "Listen, youngster, I'll have you know this is the fanciest little gadget on the market when it comes to chronometers."
"It isn't a chronometer," Alan said. "It's a junkheap. It's got everything on it but a thermometer."
"It's got one o' those, too." Linley fiddled with the settings and presented his wrist across the breakfast table to his partner. "See?"
Alan rolled his eyes up as the readout flashed onto the face of the device. "It figures. Where the dickens did you get it, anyway?"
"Don't ask." Linley raised an eyebrow.
Alan was surveying the readout. "I think you're running a temperature, Mark."
Mark glanced at the readout, too. 38.1 Celsius, it proclaimed. Linley sniffled. "I ain't surprised. I gotta cold."
"Oh, yeah?" Alan grinned slightly, looking sideways at his partner from the corner of his eye. "So did Julia when we left Lavirra."
Mark didn't even have the grace to blush. He looked smug. "Best way I know of to catch a cold."
Alan laughed, pushing his chair back from the table. "Freddy said our ship would be ready when we finished breakfast." He stretched. "I'll be glad to get home."
"Me, too." Linley drained his coffee cup. "I feel like catchin' about six months o' sleep. Man! Whatta climate! I'm sweatin' already, an' it's only nine o'clock."
"Ten past," Alan said. "Your chronometer's on the blink already, pal."
"Betcha it ain't." He looked up as a man entered the room. "What's the time, Fred?"
The man glanced at his chronometer. "Five past nine. Why?"
Mark laughed. "Your chronometer's fast, Freddy," he began.
"What's wrong?" Alan inquired, sharply.
Fred Wylie was a tall, lean man, almost matching Mark's two meter height but without the breadth of shoulder, which made him appear skinny. His usually pleasant smile was missing and a faint crease between his brows betrayed concern.
"Guys, I just got a call from the Loquin station on Riskell. They're having problems and need a psychic Team fast. Something's apparently brewing that they couldn't go into in detail."
Alan sighed. "Can't someone else handle it, Fred? I'm about shot, and Mark's sick."
Wylie shook his head. "Apparently it's pretty serious. The message was triple flagged. They've lost one agent and the covers were blown on three others. The call was specifically for you."
"Hell!" Linley said, unhappily. He sneezed.
Wylie chuckled. "That's what you get for being the only Armageddon Team in the Terran Underground. Find us another one and they won't be after you all the time."
"Oh, sure," Linley said, sourly. "They're hangin' around all over the place, y'know."
"Your ship's all powered up and ready," Wylie told them. He glanced at Linley. "I'll have Robbie get you some cold capsules, Mark."
Linley sneezed again.
**********
The day was windy and cold when Alan and Mark disembarked at the Loquin Spaceport. The sky was a leaden grey, from which snow drifted. Gusts of wind swirled the flakes in their faces as they descended the ramp. Alan looked at his partner's flushed cheeks.
"You don't look so good, Mark. You sure you don't want me to take care of this while you catch some more shut-eye?"
Linley shook his head. "Nah, I feel okay. The capsules are workin' fine. Y'know, with all the great medical advances they've come up with, you'd think they could find a cure for the common cold."
Alan laughed. "That gripe's been around for centuries. Come on, let's get you inside."
"Man, talk about weather extremes." Mark shivered. "It was hotter'n hell on Troth." He buttoned up his coat, pulling the collar tight at the neck.
They took an airtaxi to the Chelari Bar on the north side of Loquin. Typically, on planets heavily populated by the Jilectans, the establishments for the lower classes were grungy to the extreme, and Chelari's was no exception. It was a tiny hole-in-the-wall in a row of buildings. Garish green lighting over the doors announced Chelari's Bar and Grill, and as they approached, the door banged violently open. A swearing, half-clad figure emerged, lurching unsteadily as he was apparently shoved from behind. Mark leaped backward to avoid the man who fell, still cursing, into the half-melted sludge at their feet. A young woman appeared at the door behind him and casually tossed a few articles of clothing after him. Her gaze focussed on Mark and Alan and she smiled, displaying a row of startlingly white teeth in her dark-skinned face. "Hello there, gentlemen, come in. Sorry about the disturbance."
The figure in the mud came to its knees and a knife appeared in one hand. Mark reached down casually and caught the man's wrist in an iron grip. The fingers relaxed and Linley removed the weapon from the loosening grasp. He held it a moment, as though undecided what to do with it, then stuck it in his coat pocket. The man hurled curses after them as they entered Chelari's Bar and Grill.
Alan started to cough as the smell of alcohol, aromatic smokes and exotic, if not too imaginatively prepared food caught him by the throat. The girl--who stood several centimeters taller than he--patted him on the head and departed. He felt himself redden.
"Man!" Mark said. "If I hafta stick around here long I think I'll stop takin' the cold capsules. Then at least I won't hafta smell it!"
Alan smiled, his cheeks cooling. "Go sit down. I'll signal the barkeep." He watched Mark head for a table close to the back of the room, then strolled up to the bar.
"What'll it be?" The barkeep was a tall, good-looking black man with streaks of grey in his hair. His face, however, appeared smooth and youthful beneath the grizzled curls.
"Two Shallock Sepo Brandies," Alan replied.
An eyebrow crawled up. "They are unfortunately out of stock. May I recommend Paroli Liqueur in its place? It is of comparable quality."
Sometimes these dialogues could be pretty stupid. "The quality of Paroli Liqueur is not to be questioned, however, I prefer Terran Napoleon Brandy."
"You don't even look old enough to drink it," the barkeep said with a grin, keeping his voice deliberately low. "There's a private room through those curtains to the left down the hall. Take your drinks back there."
He set two glasses on the counter and poured. Alan picked them up and went back to Mark.
"Private room in the back," he said, handing Linley his drink. Mark took it and got to his feet, following Alan.
There was an occupant in the room who looked up as they entered. Alan's jaw dropped. "Dannar! What are you doing here?"
The Arcturian gave them his fanged grin. "Good evening, Alan. I have been waiting several hours for you to arrive." He reached out, taking Alan's hand in his taloned one and squeezing it warmly. Alan tried not to wince.
"It wasn't your cover that was blown, was it, Dan?" Mark demanded.
Dannar reached out and clasped Linley's hand as well. He shook his head, a gesture he had picked up from his close association with Terrans. "No, but one of my ashents was discovered. He is upstairs, recovering from a blaster burn. And zere are some very disturbing rumors..." His muzzle moved forward.
"What happened?" Alan asked.
**********
Mark sat frowning in his armchair after Dannar had finished speaking. He glanced at Alan. "Whatcha think, kid?"
"I don't know." Alan was frowning, too. "If there's a Jil that can read Arcturians..." He shook his head.
"But Passir had seen only one Shil all day," Dannar said. "And Halzzor did not seem at all interested in him. He did not even pause beside zee aircar in which Passir was seated. If he did read him, Halzzor must have done it very quickly and wizzout any difficulty at all. And zat does not make sense..."
"No, it doesn't," Alan agreed. "I can read an Arcturian, myself, but I have to be pretty close to him, and it takes a lot of effort even then. Up until now the Jils haven't been able to do it at all...so why should one appear all of a sudden like this, and be able to do it easily?"
Mark grunted disgustedly. "Well, no matter what, we got a problem. They'll have figured out by now that we're usin' Arcturians as spies. We're gonna hafta start conditionin' 'em."
"I've already reported that to our superiors." The black man was standing in the doorway. "They'll take care of the details." He strode toward them. "Ed Quade, C. O. of the station. You've got to be Colonel Linley."
Mark stood up and held out a hand. "Glad to meetcha." They shook hands and Mark clapped Alan on the shoulder. "This here's my li'l buddy, Alan."
Quade looked at him uncertainly. "You're Colonel Westover?"
Alan extended a hand, smiling. "How do you do, sir?"
Quade appeared a little taken aback. "You *are* Westover!"
"Not exactly what you expected, huh?" Mark chuckled.
"Well..." Quade laughed, too. "I expected you to be older, and...uh.."
"Bigger," Mark said. "Everybody does. Don't worry, Major. He ain't half as helpless as he looks."
Alan turned pink. "Cut it out, Mark."
The major was grinning. "I'm relieved to see you, believe me. Think you can do something about this mess?"
"I hope so," Alan said. "We'll certainly do our best."
Dannar stood up. "I shall be returning to my ship, now." His fangs flashed. "I must say, I feel better already."
"Wish I had your confidence, Dan," Alan said, wryly. "Okay, we'll be in contact later. Be careful going back."
The Arcturian nodded. Mark raised a hand. "'Bye, Dan. See you."
"Goodbye, Mark. Give my best to Shulia when you see her." He turned and went out.
Mark sank into the armchair again and sneezed. He picked up the brandy and took a long drink.
Quade regarded him soberly. "Don't you feel well, Colonel Linley?"
"Gotta damn cold," Mark said. He fished in his pocket for a cold capsule, then sneezed again, spilling his drink.
"Gesundheit," Alan said.
"Damn!" Linley gulped down the capsule with the drink. "Sounds like the best place to start would be at the Patrol station, kid." He looked at Quade. "Can you get us outfits and I. D.s?"
Quade nodded. "Take us a few hours to prepare the forgeries. We ought to have them for you by morning. Go upstairs and Sharon'll take your photos and measurements. And you might as well get some sleep. It won't be light for nine hours."
"There's twenty-six hours on this world, isn't there?" Alan said. "I always forget."
"Good night's sleep sounds great," Mark said. "Maybe this damned cold'll be better tomorrow."
"I hope so." Quade hesitated. "May I ask a question?"
"Sure," Alan said.
"You aren't a psychic, are you, Colonel Linley?"
"Look at my size," Linley said. "What do *you* think?"
"I've always understood that psychics were small people. If that's true, then you can't be."
"You'd be correct," Alan said. "I'm a psychic, Mark isn't."
"But you're psychic partners."
"Yes."
Quade looked puzzled. "What exactly is an Armageddon Team, Colonel Westover?"
Alan chuckled. "An Armageddon Team is a psychic partnership with very unusual qualities, and we're it. So far there's been no others found, which isn't to say there won't be. We get called when the job is ... shall we say, unusually difficult. The rest is top secret."
"I see ... I guess." Quade scratched his jaw thoughtfully.
**********
Chapter Three
The aircar settled quietly to the ground by a grove of trees. Mark Linley turned to his partner. "Okay, kid, I'll walk in from here and mosey around the base for awhile. I'll meetcha in front of Administration in six hours. If I run into anythin' before then, I'll signal you."
"Right, Sarge." Alan grinned up at Mark, resplendent in the black and scarlet of a Patrol sergeant.
Linley sneezed. "Damn!"
"Are you sure you want to try this, Mark?" Alan frowned worriedly at him. "You don't look like you feel so good."
Linley sneezed again and blew his nose. "I'll be okay, kid. Man! I ain't had a cold like this in years!"
"Don't exhale too hard," Alan said. "You'll infect the whole base."
Mark grinned and sneezed a third time. "Sounds like a good way t'put the station outta commission for awhile." He got out of the car. "See you later, kid."
Alan waved and the car lifted, heading for the base. Linley started for the north entrance.
The Loquin Patrol Base was south of the city proper, and primarily a recruit training depot. Linley slipped his I. D. into the identostamp at the gate, holding his breath. The card disappeared, there was a businesslike click and it reappeared at once in an upper slot. The sentry pressed a button and waved him through. Once inside the gate, Linley let out his breath. Evidently their people in Base Security hadn't fallen down on the job. He glanced around then stepped onto the nearest slidewalk. According to the map he'd studied, the barracks wasn't too far away and that was one of the best places for picking up the current scuttlebutt on the base.
The slidewalk carried him on past drab, military buildings toward the dark bulk of the barracks, perhaps a kilometer distant. The wind cut into him like knives in spite of the heavy, black coat and Linley clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. He sneezed again, three times, hard enough to rock him back on his heels. It cleared his stuffy head but left it aching. His ears rang. The cold capsules didn't seem to be working so well today. Brrr! What lousy weather! Mark swore to himself, pulling the coat tighter. Flakes were beginning to drift downward again from the leaden sky and the wind was picking up, whirling the snow in clouds around him.
The barracks was unusually well-populated today -- the off-duty patrolmen weren't spending as much time outdoors as they normally would. Mark circulated from room to room, listening to the conversation of bored, restless men. He couldn't remain in one place too long or people would start to wonder why an off-duty patrolman continued to wear his helmet -- an article of attire cordially disliked by every patrolman Mark had ever met. Besides, visor or not, it was possible he might be recognized. His own face grinned idiotically down at him from a hall bulletin board and he almost laughed. Somebody had blackened the left eye and both front teeth, as well as adding a bushy mustache and beard. Mark wondered who the budding artist was. The reward for his capture was now 150,000 credits. The Jils must be starting to regard him as a real nuisance. Linley felt a glow of pride.
Alan's picture was beside his, also in a rather conspicuous place on the board. Mark didn't recognize his partner at first, for the enterprising artist had been busy here also. Beneath the poster someone had scrawled, quite unartistically, a few obscenities and a graphic, uncomplimentary description of his partner's personal habits. Linley grinned, surmising that the powers that be probably had to replace these posters rather frequently.
After a while he paused at the front entrance. The snow was coming down heavily. Linley glanced at his chronometer. He had four hours before he was to meet Alan and so far he'd picked up nothing but rumors that, with his inside information, seemed rather silly. Where should he go next?
"Damn this damn weather!" a voice growled to his left. Mark looked around. A patrolman was standing next to him, the rank marks on his helmet proclaiming him a first classer. He was fitting on his coat and peering out at the thickening clouds of flakes. "Only critters this stuff is fit for is the fish."
"Yeah," Mark agreed. "Fish" was the nickname for the Arcturians, who were well known for their resistance to extremes of weather -- understandable to anyone acquainted with their home planet: Ceregon, in the Arcturus system.
"'Course if 'Is Grace keeps this up we won't 'ave none of 'em left," the man continued, grumpily.
"Any more been picked up?" Mark asked, trying to sound bored. "Last one I heard about was Subcommander Bonnar."
"Ain't 'eard about any more," the patrolman replied. "They will, though. 'Is Grace ain't gonna stop now." He shook his head disgustedly. "Man, it's gettin' so you can't trust nobody no more."
"Yeah," Mark agreed.
"They say the guys were Undergrounders," the man added.
"Surprise, surprise," Mark commented.
The other man laughed, buttoning up his coat. "Yeah, looks like the fish are gettin' mixed up with those lunatics now. Gonna be more 'eadaches 'n ever. 'Is Grace is lookin' 'appier'n a Centaurian mudworm."
Linley grinned, mind racing. 'Is Grace" could be only one individual -- Duke Halthzor. Halthzor, of course -- the Head of Viceregal Intelligence, and the cousin of the Jilectan Viceroy in this sector. His name had been coming up from the beginning.
The patrolman went out. Mark slowly put on his coat, considering his next move.
He couldn't stick around here much longer. It was pointless and besides somebody was bound to get curious eventually. He might as well stroll over to Administration and see what he could pick up.
So far, the best lead seemed to be Halthzor. It was obvious the ordinary patrolman knew less of what was going on than the Underground did. Whatever discovery the Jilectans had made that was enabling them to read the Arcturians, they were keeping it very quiet--and wisely so. Maybe he should suggest to Alan that he take a look at the Base Commander's mind. It was possible the C. O. might know more than the others. Not much more, though. The Jilectans certainly knew that the Terran Underground would be on top of this thing quick as soon as somebody figured out that their Arcturian agents were somehow being read.
He strode through blowing snow, shivering and cursing the weather. The Administration building loomed up out of the whiteness and Mark went up the steps two at a time, pausing in the shelter of the overhang.
An aircar purred overhead and settled quietly by the side of the street. Linley glanced at the big figure emerging from the vehicle, then moved quickly as far from the main doors as he could.
The Jilectan stood a good three meters in height and looked unwieldy and massive in the heavy, furred cloak that swirled about his feet. He went up the steps with that peculiar lightness and grace that characterized the Jilectans, whose home planet's gravity was 1.54 Terran gees.
Linley's mind shields had never been of the best but he had them up as tightly as he could and stood perfectly still, hoping he wouldn't be noticed as the giant alien swept past him. The doors slid smartly aside and the Jilectan went through, never glancing at Mark, followed at a respectful distance by two patrolmen. Linley held his breath until the outer doors slid shut behind them. His hands were shaking and he drew a long breath.
It was Halthzor.
Linley moved as close to the side of the building as he could. Shrouded by the clouds of falling snow, he would hardly be noticeable. He touched the button on his chronometer to signal his partner.
**********
Chapter Four
Alan Westover was sitting on a bench at the side of the maintenance shed when the call came. Because of his size, disguising him as a patrolman was not only impractical, but ridiculous, due to the fact that Viceregal patrolmen were uniformly large and strong. It was a requirement of the profession. Alan wore the coverall of a maintenance tech, and had been circulating about, listening to the talk of the men around him.
It was a slow day. The snow kept traffic through the maintenance department to a minimum. Men lounged around, drinking coffee and talking idly. One man was working on a piece of equipment with four others standing around giving unwanted advice. Alan could sense the man's annoyance.
His chronometer gave him a slight shock. He glanced around, rose and strolled into the bathroom. No one was there. He touched the button next to the band on his chronometer.
"Yes, Mark?"
"Come to Administration. I think I got somethin'."
Alan sauntered casually back into the maintenance shed, picked up his box of tools and walked briskly out of the building.
It was *cold*. His cloak swirled around him in the rising wind as he ran to the aircar and jumped in. Within seconds he was lifting off, heading for Administration.
The car settled gently down by the side of the street. Ahead of him, about six meters away, stood another aircar, and even through the blowing snow Alan could see the red and gold insignia of a Jilectan noble's official car. So there was a Jil here ...
A large figure wearing the black and scarlet of the Viceregal Patrol loomed up beside him. Alan's heart jerked and his hand went quickly to the concealed blaster by the side of the seat, but the man pulled open the door and dropped into the place beside him, slamming the panel as he did so. He sneezed.
"Man!" Mark Linley said, pulling off his helmet. "What stinkin' weather! I'm about froze."
Alan turned up the cabin's heating. "What did you find out?"
Mark blew on his fingers and brushed melting snow from his overcoat. "None o' the peons know what's happenin'. 'Bout all they're sure of is that Halthzor's behind it." He nodded at the car ahead of them. "He showed up about five minutes ago."
"*Halthzor*?"
"Yeah." Mark grinned. "Walked right by me and damn near gave me heart failure, lemme tell you. I figure he's here to see the Base Commander. Might be worth findin' out what it's all about."
"Good idea." Alan reached for his tool kit. "Tell you what. You stay here and soak up some heat. I'll go in and see what I can find out." He checked the mirror. "Is my wig on straight?"
Mark looked him over and nodded. "Be careful." He sneezed again. "I'm gonna move the car back to the end of the block. No sense stayin' this close to Halthzor's car."
"Right." Alan put on his cape, pulled the hood over his head and got out, shutting the door behind him. He raised a thumb to Mark and hurried toward the building. Behind him, their own aircar lifted perhaps half a meter off the surface and skimmed down the street to settle to the ground once more.
As Alan went past the Jilectan aircar, a thought occurred to him. He paused a moment, glancing back at the vehicle and a little smile twitched his lips. He closed his eyes and concentrated. The aircar engine was suddenly sharp and clear in his mind.
Alan had repaired numerous aircars during his stint at Terran Space Academy. He had worked for several months in Maintenance and Repair and knew just about all there was to know about their innards. He reached out mentally and a small part of the engine jerked loose, breaking a contact. An instant later another part came loose, then another. Alan opened his eyes and turned away, smiling a little sheepishly. There had been no real reason for his action except the desire to annoy Halthzor, but that was enough for him.
He went lightly up the steps of the Administration Building and through the doors. The directory was to his left, just inside the lobby. Alan located the number of the Base Commander's office without difficulty and strode briskly toward it.
The secretary was seated behind his desk--a short, elderly man in civilian clothing. Two patrolmen, wearing the armbands of a Jilectan's escort, stood by the door to the Commander's office.
The secretary looked up as Alan entered. "Can I help you, sir?"
Alan took off his cloak and hung it on the coat rack to one side of the door. The two patrolmen had glanced perfunctorily at him and were now standing at attention again, visored faces staring straight ahead.
"Yes, sir," Alan said. "The control comp just reported a short in your office intercom. I was in the area, so they told me to take care of it."
The grey eyebrows went up. "That's odd. I was using it only a moment ago. Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir," Alan said. He hesitated. "At least I think so. Would you test it for me?"
"Certainly." The man punched a button. Alan reached out with his mental fingers and held the connection open. The secretary pushed another button. "Bill, are you there?"
Nothing. The secretary looked at Alan. "Seems to be out, all right."
Alan took out his tools and removed the casing from the instrument. Working rapidly, he disabled the intercom, then bent over it, testing components and whistling softly between his teeth. Fifteen minutes crawled slowly past.
The door to the Commander's office slid aside and Alan ceased whistling abruptly. The secretary came quickly to his feet. Alan also stood up, his eyes downcast. Halthzor emerged. The psychic's neck prickled, but the big alien strode past without a glance, his escort falling in behind him. The door to the hall slid open and they went out. Alan took a deep breath, turning back to his work. Swiftly, he reassembled the intercom unit, restored it to its casing and looked at the secretary.
"Should work now. Could you test it, sir?"
The little man punched buttons and the crackle of an open circuit answered. He nodded to Alan. "Seems okay now. Thanks."
"Good." Alan replaced his tools and rose. "I think part of the problem may be with the unit in the Commander's office. I better check it out before I leave."
Commander Marshall looked up in irritation as he entered. "What do you want?"
"Oh." Alan paused uncertainly, sensing the emotions in the air. "I beg your pardon, sir, but the intercom's on the blink. They sent me over, but if you're busy I could come back later."
"No, no." The Commander beckoned. "Come in."
"Thank you, sir." Alan approached and began to disassemble the intercom unit on the commanding officer's desk. The man leaned back in his chair and was reading a report, a faint crease between his brows.
Appearing to be completely absorbed in his repair of the unit, Alan extended a light telepathic probe toward the Commander.
The surface emotions were primarily irritation, confusion, and a strong sense of ill-usage, moderate annoyance at the defection of Passir, and a good deal of resentment toward Halthzor. Alan strengthened the probe, trying to reach past the flood of shielding emotions to the thoughts beneath.
Most of the irritation was concerned with the chore which Halthzor had come to see him about. There was a Terran -- no picture in the man's mind to identify this person, simply the knowledge that it was a Terran--that Halthzor and the Viceroy had discovered some important use for ...
The room had blurred out in his concentration, but he wasn't aware of it. This person was being transferred from the Loquin Security Bloc to the Viceregal Estate this evening. Marshall was to provide the escort and guard. Ground and air traffic were to be diverted ...
The Commander's thoughts shifted to puzzlement, then alarm. There was the scrape of a chair and Alan jerked himself back to the outside world to see the man staring at him in concern.
"Are you all right?"
Alan nodded. "Sorry, sir, I was thinking. I believe I have the problem fixed, now." He rapidly reassembled the unit and punched a button. "Testing. Can you hear me?"
The secretary's voice responded. "You're sounding fine."
"Good." Alan turned to the Commander, who was still watching him a little dubiously. "It's done, sir. If you have any more problems with it, be sure to let us know."
"I will. Thank you. Are you sure you're feeling all right?"
"I'm fine, thank you, sir. 'Bye."
**********
"It has to be a Terran psychic," Alan said. "A psychic that's good enough to read Arcturians. They must have just discovered him in the last couple of days or something would have shown up before now."
"And naturally," Mark said, "they're gonna guard this guy like the mint."
"That's for sure," Alan said. "We don't stand a chance of getting to him during the transfer. Halthzor told Marshall that the Patrol's to shoot anybody who comes within blaster range of this guy, except his guards."
They were silent a moment. Mark rubbed the angle of his jaw with his thumb, scowling. Alan frowned thoughtfully out into the whirling snow. "Halthzor's car still there?"
"Yeah," Mark said. "Wouldn't start. His Grace was mad as hops, too. Grabbed a car that came up beside him and took off. Poor guy in the back seat practically got shoved out on his ear. I could tell he didn't appreciate the Duke much."
Alan smiled. "What on earth gave you that impression?"
"Maybe it had somethin' t'do with the snowball the guy threw after the car. Halthzor's chauffeur's still over there from what I can see. Probably tryin' t'decide what t'do." Mark looked at Alan oddly. "You wouldn't know nothin' about Halthzor's car problems, would you, pal?"
"Who, me?" Alan asked.
"I thought so!" Mark gave a bark of laughter that changed to a cough. Alan slapped him on the back.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." Mark coughed and cleared his throat. "I figured it was you. I'm gettin' so I can recognize m'li'l buddy's handiwork from a distance."
"Uh huh," Alan said, thoughtfully.
Linley was watching him. "Okay, kid, what's hatchin' in that bright li'l brain o' yours now? What did you have in mind when you zapped His Grace's car? Or didja just do it to make him mad?"
"That was the only reason I had in mind then," Alan said, slowly. "But now I've got another idea. See what you think of it. Besides this guy's guards, only one sort of person will be able to get near him without getting shot..."
**********
tbc
