Toomelli's Moon: 3/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
IV
It took just under eighteen hours to reach Corala. They had spent the first part of the trip talking and filling each other in on what had happened since the adventure in the Kuloghian mines.
"Dannar wants us to help him spy on the Jils," Monty said. "In between doin' our regular business."
"What *is* your regular business?" Alan asked. "If you don't mind my asking."
"Smugglin'," Monty said cheerfully. "Val and me, between us we figure we got plenty o' experience in dealin' with the Jils and the Patrol. We're considerin' Dan's offer."
"But?" Mark said.
"Well, spyin' on Jils requires bein' around 'em, an' they read minds. Dan says he can teach me how to block 'em out so's I don't get read by accident, but how'm I gonna know it works without a burn test?"
"Burn test?" Vallir asked, looking questioningly at Alan.
"A burn test is what you give equipment that you've wired up to work, like a computer or something," Alan explained. "You turn it on. If it doesn't go up in smoke, it's been done right. That's why they call it a burn test."
"Ah, I ssee Monty's point," Vallir said, nodding.
"Exactly," Monty said. "How'm I gonna know I'm doin' it right without some Jil tryin' t'read my mind?"
Alan grinned. "I'll teach you," he said. "I can tell if you're doing it right. Then, even if you don't go to work for the Underground, knowing how to shield will be an asset."
"Can you do that?" Monty asked.
"Of course he can," Dannar said blandly. "You are sspeaking to ze best psychic in ze Terran Underground."
Monty looked sideways at Alan. "I've heard stories. Everyone has. Did you really outdraw Salthvor?"
"Yeah," Mark said soberly. "He did. He yanked the blaster outta the hands of a 'trol an' shot Salthvor with it. It's why I'm still alive an' kickin'. And Dannar's right. He's the best psychic in the Underground. You can't do better'n havin' him teach you."
Monty chuckled. "I believe you," he said. "I saw what this kid did in the mines. Okay, I accept. How long does it take?"
"It depends on the person," Alan said. "It shouldn't take over half an hour."
"Okay, then let's get busy." Monty shook his head. "Man, you shoulda seen the faces o' the guys when it came over the news who'd shot the Jil, an' who the kid was that opened up the mines. You ain't got a buncha more loyal fans nowhere than that bunch. Even Mel hadta admit he'd been wrong."
Alan smiled.
"By the way," Monty added, "How'd you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Blow up the mines that way? The Jils say you were responsible, but the way you looked when I left there, you couldn'ta even tossed a stick o' dynamite into 'em, much less blown 'em off the face o' the planet like they say you did. Were you packin' a fusion bomb in your back pocket or somethin'?"
Alan shook his head. "No. It was the crystals, themselves. That's why the Jils wanted them."
"The crystals were explosive? Why didn't they blow up when you broke that one?"
"Not explosive," Alan said. "The crystals were storehouses of psychic energy. After I figured that out, all I had to do to detonate them was to release the energy."
Monty whistled softly. "That's all, huh?"
"Sure," Mark said. "Nothin' to it."
**********
The jolt that marked their emergence from hyperspace woke Alan from the light doze into which he had fallen. Mark straightened up in his chair, yawned and glanced at his chronometer. "Eighteen hours? Man, that was fast."
Monty got to his feet. "What d'you expect from a ship this size with a Jil yacht engine in its guts? We'll be landin' in about twenty minutes. Guess I'd better get in there with Val." He vanished into the control room.
"Loki's Choice" touched lightly down in an open, grassy field. It was still dark on this part of Corala, but the sky to the east showed a pale grey streak. Dannar went into the control room, and Mark and Alan followed.
The viewscreen showed a stand of trees not far away and a lake spread out, shimmering faintly in the distance. All was still.
Then a small, glowing point of light appeared against the pale horizon. It grew rapidly brighter and Vallir glanced at the scanner. "Patrol aircar. Quicker zan I expected."
"No problem," Mark said. "How do we look, kid?"
"Mean," Alan said.
Mark and Dannar were clad in Patrol uniform. Linley picked up his helmet and strapped it in place. "Turn around," he directed, "and put your hands behind you."
Alan obeyed and Mark clicked restrainers onto his wrists. He nodded at Monty. "Open the hatch."
"Right," Monty said. "Good luck. We'll be watchin'."
Alan gave him a nervous smile.
"Here zey come," Vallir said." He pushed a button on the control panel.
The aircar was just settling to the ground as Mark and Dannar hustled Alan down the ramp, each with a hand under one of his arms. Alan was struggling quite convincingly in their grasps and as they reached the bottom of the ramp, he hurled himself backward, dragging his feet. Mark jerked him forward. "C'mon, bud, none o' that."
Two patrolmen had emerged from the aircar, blasters drawn. One of them wore the red stripe of a sublieutenant slashed on the silver helmet. They didn't speak as Mark and Dannar half-dragged Alan to his feet and pushed him toward the vehicle.
The officer stuck his blaster back into its holster. "What the devil's goin' on? Who's he?"
"Name's Bloom; that's all I know," Mark growled, disgustedly. "Move it, you little idiot!" He jerked Alan impatiently forward. "We've been after him long enough, an' the Underground's sure got their hair up about him, so he must be worth somethin'. Those lunatics've given us no end o' trouble, damn 'em!" He took a firmer grip on Alan's arm. "C'mon!"
"Wait a minute," the officer said. He was obviously a Shallockian, by his accent. "Where'd you pick up that heap?" He surveyed the ship behind them distastefully.
"Had to hitch a ride home," Mark said, disgustedly. "Tell you about it in the car. I'm about up to here with this --" He broke off and jerked Alan by the arm again. "Move, you!"
The other patrolman lowered his blaster, beginning to replace it in his holster. Alan went limp suddenly, sagging to his knees between Dannar and Mark. Linley readied himself.
He had seen it happen before, but he thought he would never become accustomed to it. The blaster flipped from the patrolman's fingers and flew like a bullet straight toward Mark. He let go of Alan's arm and the weapon landed neatly in his palm. "Freeze!"
The two men stared, open-mouthed.
"Hands over your heads!" Mark snapped.
They obeyed. Alan stood up again and Dannar removed the restrainers from his wrists. The blaster in the sublieutenant's holster wiggled free and floated across the space between them to land softly in Dannar's outstretched hand. Above them, the ship's hatch opened and a coil of rope thumped to the ground. The hatch closed again and the boarding ramp retreated.
"Don't move," Mark cautioned, as Alan moved around behind the patrolmen and unsnapped their helmets, tossing them into the aircar to preclude the possibility of the men sounding the alarm via their communicators. Mark and Dannar stood still, covering the two men with their blasters. Alan stepped back out of range and the pouch on the officer's belt opened apparently of its own accord. The man's wallet popped out and floated across the space to his hand. The sublieutenant swore.
"Quiet," Mark said absently.
Alan moved over to his partner and took the blaster he held, handing him the wallet. "Here you go, Sublieutenant."
Mark opened the wallet and squinted at the name on the identification card. "Oh man; how do I always pick the tongue twisters?"
"It's Grinheimer," Alan said. "Go ahead."
Mark circled the men and opened the driver's door of the aircar. "Grinheimer to station. Come in."
There was a crackle and a voice responded. "Drevelle Station here. Go ahead, Grinheimer."
"All clear. Returnin' to base."
"Yes sir. What was it?"
"Some crazy kid tryin' out his new Christmas toy. We've slapped him on the wrist, an' as soon as he finishes bawlin', he'll be takin off."
There was a bark of laughter over the com. "Acknowledged, sir. Drevelle out."
"Out," Mark said. He cut transmission and climbed out of the car again.
Alan gestured with the muzzle of his blaster. "Walk toward those trees," he told the patrolmen.
The officer started to obey. He was a middle-aged man with a scarred, rugged face. His companion, in contrast, was young -- probably no more than seventeen, with blond hair and frightened blue eyes, which, at the moment, were fastened on Alan in horrified recognition. "Sir!" he squeaked. "That's Westover!"
The officer swung around, his gaze riveting on Alan's face. His expression of horror was almost comical. Mark removed the blaster from his own holster and waved it at the two men. "Move!" he ordered.
The young patrolman seemed not to have heard him. "Holy space, sir!" He sounded on the edge of panic. "We're dead!"
"Move!" Alan ordered. Only Mark heard the quiver of repressed laughter that underlay the word. His partner always found it difficult to understand the terror that his name evoked in the enemy.
The two men obeyed, their hands still high over their heads. Mark and Dannar followed. Alan picked up the coil of rope and trailed the others.
As they reached the trees, the ship came to life. It rose like a bullet into the cloudless sky, and they heard the roar of the engines fade.
They entered the grove of trees and Linley stopped them with a word. "Okay, buddy, do your stuff." He addressed the two patrolmen. "And if either of you moves a muscle, I'll kill you first and ask questions afterward. Got it?"
He didn't wait for a reply but nodded to his partner. Alan went around behind the men and rested a hand lightly on the temple of the young patrolman. The man gasped and flinched.
The needle beam from Mark's blaster shriveled the grass at his feet. "I'm not gonna tellya again. Don't move!"
The young man froze, his Adam's apple bobbing and his eyes rolling wildly.
Alan concentrated.
"They're from the Drevelle base," he said.
"Where's Kaley bein' held?"
"He's at Drevelle," Alan confirmed. "Patrolman Johnson here saw him."
"Has he been interrogated yet?"
"He doesn't know, but he doesn't think so. Kaley was walking."
"He hasn't, then," Mark said, grimly. "Nobody from the Underground walks after a Jil interrogation."
Alan nodded. "He's in the brig, under triple guard. They're transporting him to Toomelli's Moon in about three hours, by battlecruiser. It's the one that caught him. It's at the base spaceport now."
"Which one?"
"He doesn't know," Alan said, after another long minute. "He doesn't know anything else." He removed his hand from the man's temple and stepped back out of reach. Mark saw him frown.
The young patrolman's belt pouch flew open and the wallet within popped out, lifted by unseen hands. It arched across the space to Mark, who picked it out of the air, one-handed. Linley grinned.
"Okay, boys, lie down on the ground -- face down an' spread 'em."
The patrolmen reluctantly obeyed. Between them, Alan and Dannar cuffed and gagged the two men. Then Alan turned and went nimbly up the nearest large tree. Dannar followed, and Mark bundled the younger man upward.
Alan and the Arcturian hauled him six meters from the ground and bound him tightly with his back to the trunk. Then they climbed down, received the officer and treated him in a similar manner.
Before climbing down, Alan paused, turning to the young patrolman. Mark watched, his head tilted far back so he could keep an eye on his partner.
"I hope you don't get in too much trouble over this," he said quietly, "but you were right to cooperate. That's why you're alive now. The Underground never kills cooperative patrolmen."
Beside Mark, Dannar voiced a faint hiss that Linley had learned was the Arcturian equivalent of a chuckle. He shook his head, but stood back to give Alan room as he dropped lightly to the ground beside Dannar and Mark. Without another word, the three of them headed back toward the aircar.
Ten minutes later, they sighted the station. Dannar brought them down on a side street of the city and Mark motioned to Alan. "Okay, kiddo, out."
Alan climbed over his lap and descended to the street. Linley leaned out. "We'll be back as soon as we can. Meetcha six blocks down and one over -- and watch your step. There's a lotta Jils around."
"Right," Alan said. Mark closed the door and the aircar rose once more into the air.
**********
Alan stood watching the aircar vanish into the misty morning air of Corala. He knew Mark's reasoning was sound. He was far too short to impersonate a patrolman, and -- he sighed softly between his teeth -- far too valuable an asset to the Terran Underground to take part in such a risky venture, but it still bugged him. He felt deserted.
He glanced around. The street was a dirty, narrow alley. Huge buildings towered on all sides of him. Corala was a Jilectan populated world, as Mark had said. The planet had been Linley's base when he had been Strike Commander of the "Wolverine".
Mark was an interesting person, as Alan had discovered during the two years of their partnership. In spite of the heavy Shallockian accent and speech pattern, with its relentlessly bad grammar, to anyone from a Terran world, he was a highly intelligent individual. He had been a slum kid, who rose to a leader in the streets through brains, muscle and sheer nerve. When he had been just short of sixteen, he had joined the Viceregal Patrol, as many kids from Shallock did, and in barely more than three years had won himself a commission in the field.
Mark had apparently been an exceptional officer, although he rarely spoke about that part of his life to anyone, for he advanced rapidly through the ranks and at the unheard-of age of twenty-five was promoted to the rank of Strike Commander of a Jilectan battlecruiser. A year later he had met Alan Westover and had been applying his considerable talents in the service of the Terran Underground ever since, to their gain and the everlasting headache of his former masters.
One of the aliens was coming toward Alan down a walkway as he emerged from the alley. His heart gave a leap and began to pound. He moved respectfully aside, keeping his eyes lowered. The Jilectan swept past him without so much as a glance in his direction. Alan took a deep breath and started down the street toward the rendezvous point.
There were Jilectans everywhere. Alan's skin crawled as another of the aliens passed him, accompanied by a female of the species. The sight surprised him. Somehow, he had not thought of there being female Jilectans. She was nearly as tall as the male beside her, towering over Alan, and her intricately coifed red hair sparkled with jewels. He moved quickly aside once more and felt her glance rake over him. He wanted to run and tried to project a feeling of fright and awe through his shielding. It wasn't too difficult. Jilectans terrified him. Ever since he had come face to face with Salthvor on Mark's battlecruiser, two years ago, the mere sight of a Jilectan was enough to raise the hair on his head.
He walked briskly in the direction of the station. Two more Jilectans passed him, one of the crowding him right off the walkway. His skin prickled again as the alien's gaze passed over him. He must find an inconspicuous place to wait for Mark, he thought. He felt too conspicuous, and besides, he was going to die of heart failure if he ran into many more of these characters.
He retreated to a narrow doorway as another Jilectan swept by. The door behind him opened and Alan jumped convulsively, but it was a Terran that emerged and went past him with hardly more than a look. Alan remained where he was, his back against the stone wall. The building looked like an apartment of some kind. Maybe the foot traffic by here would be sparse.
He hoped desperately that Mark would hurry.
**********
tbc
