"Indeed," Raoul said, equanimity completely restored.

'q have a great deal to do to arrange for the party. There

are the caterers to contact, the menu to consider. I am

certain that the house needs cleaning--"

"Just get Darlene off this planet quickly and safely,

will you, LotiT' Xris said grimly.

"Of course." Raoul's lashes half closed. He glided

over, wrapped a hand around Xris's arm, his flesh-and-

blood arm, squeezed it gently. "Have no fear for Dar-

 

lene, my friend. We will take excellent care of her. And

perhaps she may learn some things about herself at the

same time. She has been shut up inside a prison for the

last several years--"

"She's been shut up inside a secret military space-

base--"

"I don't mean that, Xris Cyborg." Raoul's voice was

soft, low. "I mean a prison of her own design. It is not

her death you should be most concerned about, but

her life."

"What do you mean? What about her life?"

"She doesn't have one," Raoul said calmly. "Good-

bye. Kiss, kiss." He started to glide away, turned back.

The purplesdrenched eyes were misty, shimmering,

glazed. "Oh, and you will not permit Harry Luck to ac-

company Darlene to Adonia, will you? To think of him

sprawled on my white velvet couch, in those dreadful T-

shirts he wears, drinking beer, belching, and munching

potato chips."

"'The horror, the horror,'" Xris said sympathetically.

Raoul swayed slightly on his feet, put his hand to his

head. "Yes, it is, isn't it? Pardon, Xris Cyborg. That last

image has been too much. I feel faint. I believe I shall

go sit down a moment."

"Xris, I--" Harry was looming on the horizon.

"Wait a sec."

The Little One, instead of attending to his distraught

friend, as would have been usual, was standing in front

of Xris.

"What is it?" Xris asked gently. He had a real fond-

ness for the small empath. "Is something wrong?"

The fedora nodded.

"What? Tell me."

The Little One raised his small hands, palms out.

"Something's wrong, but you don't know what," Xris

guessed---correctly, it seemed. "Is it me?"

The Little One nodded his head once, then shook it

again and waved his hands, indicating that yes, he knew

Xris had problems, but that this wasn't what was both-

ering him.

"Is it about Darlene?" Xris tried again.

 

 

 

 

 

Ii:;i?

 

!i;11~

 

!ii

 

TheLittle One thought a moment, then shook his

head emphatically.

"What, then? The job? The museum? Sakuta?"

The Little One considered this. He nodded, but only

tentatively.

"Something's wrong with this job? What's wrong? Can

you tell me? Can Raoul tell me?"

The Little One shook his head, pulled the fedora

down around his ears in a gesture of frustration. Stamp-

ing his feet, he lifted his hands into the air, turned, and

stomped off, tripping over the hem of the raincoat as

he went.

Xris, too, was frustrated, considered going after the

empath and trying to pin him down, then decided against

it. The Little One was obviously as upset with himself

as Xris was with him. Nagging at him wouldn't help,

might further upset him.

"As if we didn't have enough trouble," Xris muttered.

He thought over what might go wrong with the job and,,

other than the obvious, like being arrested for imperson-

ating an officer, couldn't think of a thing. Paranoia must be catching.

Xris turned to the next problem, to tell Harry that

he couldn't go to Adonia because he'd never make it

through customs.

He just wasn't pretty enough.

 

EHfiPT[R

?

 

I always say that beauty is only sin deep.

 

Saki (Hector Hugh Munro), Reginald

 

oe only part of the passport which Adonian customs

fficers inspect is the photo. On Adonia, they don't

particularly care where you are from, where you are

going, or how you intend to get there. They're not overly

interested in what you are bringing on-world, what you

are intending to take off-world, or why you're on their

world at all. They only want to know what you look like.

Eons ago, when genetic altering was popular, scientists

set out to breed a race of superior people, Wise, intelli-

gent, gifted with all manner of attributes, these people

were destined to be rulers and were known as the Blood

Royal. The current king, Dion Starfire, and now his new-

born son, are the last of that bloodline. At that time,

the Adonians also began experimenting with genetics

with hopes of producing a superior being--one designed

to meet their own standards. The Adonians did not seek

intelligence and wisdom. They sought aquiline noses,

flat ears, thin thighs, cleft chins, melting eyes, and firm

buttocks. If you are beautiful, reasoned the early Ado-

nians, you don't need to think. Thinking will be done

for you.

The Adonians succeeded. They created a species of

human noted galaxy-wide for extraordinary beauty.

Males and females were so wonderfully attractive that

the term "gorgeous as an Adonian" passed into popular

 

 

 

 

usage. But it seems that the Creator demands a price

for tampering with His creation. The more beautiful the

Adonians became on the outside, the less beautiful they

grew within, until at this time in their history, they were

noted as being a society completely devoid of morals.

The Adonians are not immoral. Immorality implies

that one has a sense of the difference between right and

wrong. The Adonians lack this. For example, Adonians

have passed laws stating that it is legal to "refuse to

sustain" a child if it is born ugly. To them, this is mercy

killing. The Adonians care about nothing except beauty

and pleasure--in any and every form.

Following this line of thinking, one might assume that

the home world of Adonia would be a cesspool of iniq-

uity, a den of vice. This is not true.

The Adonians believe that their planet must be beau-

tiful, in order to suitably showcase the beautiful popu-

lace. If planet and inhabitants are beautiful, people in

the rest of the galaxy will come visit and enjoy, admire

and emulate, and---of paramount importance--spend

money. Since most methods of earning money (factories,

offices, and such) tend to either smell bad or look dis-

gusting or cause wrinkles, the Adonians banned these

from their world, which left them with only one major

source of income. What they live for--pleasure.

Adonia became a hedonistic paradise. The Adonians

have only one entry requirement: You must either be at

least passable in appearance or agree to wear--at all

times--a mask so that your looks will not offend any of

the more sensitive in nature.

As Darlene rode on the Adonian shuttlecraft--one of

the most luxurious she had ever encountered--she found

herself growing increasingly nervous. The thought of

having to pass through customs, of being deemed "unac-

ceptable" in appearance, the possibility of having to

wear a mask, was unnerving. Bothered her far more, she

was startled to realize, than the thought of an assassin

stalking her.

"I'm being silly," she argued with herself. "What do

I care what a bunch of vapid, ignorant, egotistic, preju-

diced people think of my looks?"

 

Nevertheless, she did care. Perhaps it was being in

such close proximity to so many Adonians on the shut-

tle, staring at them in awe, listening to them talk about

shampoo and cosmetics, the latest fashions, the most ex-

otic perfumes. Darlene caught herself pulling her hair to

the back of her head in a vain effort to hide the split

ends, and wishing that she'd taken Raoul's advice as to

her makeup. Several Adonians glanced at her and hastily

averted their eyes.

Raoul himself was in a state of bliss not to be approxi-

mated by artificial stimulants. It had been three years,

he told Darlene, since he'd returned to his home world

for Hedonist Days and he had missed it dreadfully.

"Mummy and Daddy made so much of it," he said

during the shuttle trip. The tears of childhood memories

glistened in his eyes. "Baking the phallic cookies, setting

up the coildom tree, mixing the hallucinogens for the

punch. That was my special job. Then planning the

party games!"

"Your parents are dead. are they'?" Darlene asked,

watching Raoul make a delicate swipe at his nose with

a lace handkerchief.

Raoul was forced to pause to think about this. "No, I

don't believe so. I'm sure I would have heard .... Yes."

He confirmed this in his mind. "I would have undoubt-

edly been informed."

"Did you have an argument?"

"Oh, no. We are on quite good terms. At least we

would be, I'm sure, if we ever met." Raoul smiled at

her confusion. "You see. my dear, my parents' job of

caring for me ended when I reached the age of majority,

which--on Adonia--is sixteen. At that age. state pay-

ments for the upkeep of children ends. I was expected

to go out and make my way in the world. Mummy and

Daddy gave me their blessing and a ten-setting adjust-

able curling iron and we haven't seen each other since."

"You refer to child-raising as a job?"

"What else would it be?" Raoul returned compla-

cently. "Most children are products of test tubes anyway.

I refer to my parents as 'mummy' and 'daddy' but

they're probably not, biologically. The state pays parents

 

 

 

 

to rear children and they receive a bonus if their children

turn out well. Which I did," he added, smoothing his

hair and contentedly contemplating his own reflection in

the mirror, of which there were many on the Adonian

shuttlecraft. "My parents made quite a tidy sum off me."

"There's no affection," said Darlene, hesitantly. "No

parent-child bond. That sort of thing?"

"Not necessary," Raoul assured her. "Quite detrimen-

tal, in fact. People like you--no offense, dear--have

complexes brought on by hating your father and loving

your mother or vice versa. Those complexes lead to all

manner of sexual problems, which lead to more com-

plexes. We have none of that here. You were a woman

trapped in a man's body. Recall how you suffered in

your society! On Adonia, such a mistake would have

been discovered and corrected by the time you were

twelve!"

Darlene's cheeks flushed. She didn't mind talking

about herself or her past with her friends, but she wished

Raoul would keep his voice down. Several Adonians--

who had before turned away from her--were now re-

garding her with marked interest.

"What about affection?" she asked, hurriedly chang-

ing the subject. "Love?"

"Messy emotions!" Raoul sniffed, banished them with

a flutter of his handkerchief. "I am happy to say that,

for the most part, we have eradicated them."

"I wouldn't say that eradication has been entirely suc-

cessful in your case," Darlene said with a smile.

The Little One, enveloped in the raincoat, his face

covered by the hat, was sound asleep, his head pillowed

on Raoul's lap.

Raoul glanced down at his slumbering friend. "I do

have some flaws," he admitted, mortified. Sighing, he

comforted himself with another glimpse at his reflection.

"Fortunately they are only internal. They are not appar-

ent on the surface. Which reminds me. I must change

prior to landing."

Raoul gently shifted the Little One to a more comfort-

able position, cradling his friend on a nest of soft cush-

ions, then left. Raoul had already changed clothes twice,

 

once before leaving the space cruiser to go to the shuttle,

once after having arrived on the shuttle, and now once

again, in order to disembark.

Darlene was accustomed to shuttle rides in which ev-

eryone sat glumly, silently in their seats, anxious to land,

anxious to end the wearisome traveling and get on with

their lives. Not the Adonians. The shuttle ride developed

into a party, a blur of motion. color, and activity, all

awash in heady perfume.

Adonians were constantly leaving to change their

clothes or arrange their hair or change their hair and

arrange their clothes. A sumptuous banquet was served

.aft. Live entertainment was for'ard. Stewards poured

champagne into crystal glasses. The shuttle had a heated

pool on board, a masseuse. a sauna. Also a recreational

area. Watching the couples (with the occasional three-

some or foursome) enter the rec room and later emerge

flushed and invigorated, Darlene guessed that the Ado-

nians weren't playing shuffleboard.

"People became so restless on shuttle flights," Raoul

explained when he returned. He had changed from a

mauve jumpsuit with golden epaulets on the shoulders

and matching gold boots to a long flowing pink caftan

with billowing sleeves, encrusted with embroidery and

glittering with sequins.

"Restless! The flight's only two hours!" Darlene pro-

tested. "Why couldn't you just ... read a book?"

Raoul laughed so much he had to leave again to repair

the damage done to his eyeliner.

When he returned, he regarded Darlene with a con-

templative frown. "Now, do let me try to do something

with your hair!"

While Raoul fussed over her--murmuring despairingly

beneath his breath--Darlene studied the other passen-

gers onboard the shuttle, trying to ascertain if any of

them might be shadowing her--although, she admitted

to herself ruefully, spotting a tail would be a difficult

task on an Adonian shuttle. What with all the comings

and goings and clothes changing and appearance alter-

ing, she probably wouldn't have spotted her own mother.

Was the drop-dead gorgeous Adonian blond woman

 

 

 

 

seated across the aisle from her the same drop-dead gor-

geous Adonian redhead who had occupied that seat on

departure? Darlene wasn't sure. She had the dim notion

that the woman wasn't a woman at all. Darlene was be-

ginning to think Xris had been right. This trip was a

mistake.

But there was always the Little One. The telepath,

having awakened, reported through Raoul that no one

was thinking about Darlene at all.

"Not surprising, with this hairdo," Raoul muttered.

He gazed sadly at Darlene. His voice had the tragic note

of a surgeon telling the nurses to pull the plug. "I've

done all I can conceivably be expected to do, given the

circumstances."

The shuttle landing took forever, the craft settled

down very slowly and very gently. "It would never do

to jostle the wine," Raoul explained.

When the doors were at last opened, the Adonians

rose gracefully, bade good-bye to newfound shipboard

romances, and glided toward the exits on waves of rose

and musk and violet. The smoke of hookahs lingered in

the air. The few off-world passengers, feeling--as did

Darlene--frumpy, dowdy, repressed, inhibited, and,

most of all, ugly, slumped down in the seats and wished

they'd never come.

Raoul was eager to leave, however, and insisted that

Darlene come with him. Walking off the shuttle in com-

pany with the glittering, beautiful Adonian, she under-

stood now why the Little One chose to envelop himself

in the raincoat; she envied him his fedora.

Shrinking into herself, conscious of all eyes on her

(disparagingly, it seemed), Darlene Mohini picked up

her computer case and her shabby overnight bag and

prepared to be thoroughly and deeply humiliated in

customs.

She would have almost rather been shot.

 

CHSPIER

8

 

So clomb this first grand thief into God's fold...

 

John Milton, Paradise Lost

 

The shuttle landing on Pandor was considerably more

I jarring to its passengers than the shuttle landing on

Adonia. No champagne had been served on the flight;

the fragrances in the air were a m~xture of disinfectant,

boot polish, and machine oil. No swimming pools; the

passengers considered themselves lucky to have toilets.

The seats were benches, with worn and cracked vinyl

cushions. The passengers made no complaint about the

discomfort, however. They were all Army personnel,

they'd all been in worse places, and there was a full-bull

colonel onboard, who was heard to remark to his aide

that this landing was soft as a baby's bottom compared

to the drop-ship landings he'd made during his days with

special forces.

After that, of course, the other passengers--two pri-

vates and two lieutenants--dared make no complaint,

could only nurse their bruised tailbones and suffer in

silence.

As a matter of fact, Jamil's own tailbone hurt like hell,

but he knew how a colonel was expected to act. He'd

seen more than his share during his years in the Army.

When the shuttle landed, the door opened to blinding,

glaring sunshine. The flight attendant--an especially at-

tractive woman who'd been solicitous to JamiFs wants

and needs all during the flight (to the glum envy of the

 

 

 

 

two lieutenants and the sardonic amusement of the two

privates)--turned to announce that passengers could

now disembark.

The privates and the lieutenants all looked at Jamil.

It would be the colone!'s privilege to leave first, keep

them waiting--if he chose. He smiled, waved magnani-

mously.

"You gentlemen go ahead," he said. "The captain and

I will wait."

Standing, he straightened his uniform, adjusted his

cuffs, smiled and glanced at the flight attendant. She

smiled back. He'd forgotten the effect of a uniform on

some women.

The others left hurriedly, the two privates endeavoring

to avoid catching the eyes of the two lieutenants. All

four grabbed their onboard luggage, which had been

stowed in the back, sidled past the colonel and his aide,

and hastened toward the door. Jamil could almost see

them exhale with relief when they made it out safely.

He felt a twinge of regret for the old days.

Xris, in his guise as captain and aide-de-camp, left his

seat, next to Jamil and stood aside to allow the "colo-

nel" to pass.

Jamil strode out into the aisle.

"Cheek to see if the staff car is waiting, Captain."

"Yes, sir," Xris replied, and started off.

"Captain!" Jamil barked.

Xris turned.

Jamil held out his carry-on bag. "And see to the rest

of the luggage, will you, Captain?"

Xris blinked, recovered. Returning, he took the bag.

"Yes, sir, Colonel, you bastard," he added under his

breath. "Don't get used to this."

Jamil grinned, tugged on his cuffs, and walked forward

to pass a few pleasant moments flirting with the flight

attendant.

Through the plane's window, he watched Xris retrieve

the luggage, carry it down the stairs to the tarmac, broil-

ing in the Pandoran sun. Jamil chatted as Xris supervised

the unloading of the large crate which contained the vi-

 

sual aid materials the colonel would be using in his lec-

ture, saw it deposited safely on the tarmac.

It must be hot out there, Jamil thought, observing Xris

sweating in his heavy uniform as he stood at the bottom

of the ramp, waiting to make his report.

Jamil relaxed a moment more in the cool comfort of

the cabin, joking with the shuttle pilots and enjoying a

chilled glass of orange juice. The flight attendant was

writing down her phone number.

She handed it to him. He thanked her, thanked the

pilots, and proceeded down the stairs. He couldn't recall

enjoying anything in his life half so much as watching

Xris salute him.

Jamil returned the salute, glanced around in feigned

astonishment.

"The staff car is not here, sir," Xris reported.

Jamil wasn't surprised. The big surprise would have

been if the staff car had been there to meet them.

"Find out what the devil's happened to it, Captain!"

Jamil ordered, but Xris was already crossing over to the

small terminal building, his eye on some poor unfortu-

nate corporal.

Jamil strode over to the terminal building, taking his

time. He could hear Xris's furious bellow.

"Why the hell isn't Colonel Jatanski's staff car on the

tarmac, ready to pick us up'?"

The corporal stammered his reply. "I'm s-sorry, sir,

but we have no record of any senior officers arriving on

base today."

"We'll see about that, Corporal!" Xris stated grimly.

Jamil took a moment to enjoy the view.

Pandor was a desert planet--at least the part on which

they had landed was desert. A white-hot sun blazed in

a cobalt-blue sky. No need for paved landing strips. The

tarmac was red dirt, baked hard by the relentless sun.

The buildings of the landing site, and those of the Army

base itself, which he could see off in the distance, were

low, stone structures, cut from rock that was the same

reddish color as the dirt. Singularly unattractive.

Off to his left, at the far end of the tarmac, were two

huge hangars. Both had their doors open, to try to ob-

 

 

 

 

 

tain some relief from the sweltering heat for the crews

working inside. Various signs in Standard Military iden-

tified the Army Aviation squadrons based on Pandor.

Bombers and fighters and fighter-bombers, these

spaceplanes could be used for both land and space com-

bat. Jamil made a mental note of them; you never knew

when such information might come in handy.

A sign adorned with an orange skull on a black back-

ground hung over the first hangar, announced the fact

that the 2311th Bombardment "Thundering Death"

Squadron was stationed there. In front of the doors, a

massive Claymore Heavy Bomber was winding up its

engines for some type of maintenance check, to judge

by the grounds crew swarming around it. Next hangar

over was the home of the 1073rd Tactical Fighter

"Ruby" Squadron. Maintenance crews could be seen

working on the Dirk Fighters inside.

By the time Jamil arrived at the terminal, Xris had

hauled the unfortunate corporal inside, had him sweating

over a computer terminal.

"Punch up the daily routine for this god-forsaken

base, Corporal," Xris ordered.

The corporal obeyed. Jamil bent over, glanced at it.

The screen lit with the daily administrivia: Order unit

photographs from the base photographic unit, Mess C

will be closed at lunch today, The construction area is

off-limits to all personnel, and so forth. Jamil was just

starting to get worried when he saw the name Jatanski

flash by. There it was: Reminder to all personnel to attend

tomorrow's briefing on "Foreign Object Damage to

Spaceplane Engines" to be given by noted aerospace ex-

pert Colonel R. A. Jatanski.

Xris jabbed his finger at the entry, glared at the red-

faced corporal, who no doubt saw private's stripes in the

cyborg's eyes.

"Uh, s-s-sir, I-I--"

"Get me my goddamn staff car!" Xris yelled.

"Yes, sir!"

The sweating and shaken corporal grabbed the phone;

Jamil and Xris could both hear him talking in urgent

 

tones to someone on the other end, probably the Base

Commander's aide.

"I was getting nervous," Jamil said in a low voice to

Xris. The two had strolled over to the window, in order

to give the corporal room to maneuver.

"You pull up the daily list then!" he was overheard

to say.

"I thought maybe Rowan might have blown it,"

Jamil continued.

Xris smiled, shook his head. His hands kept reaching

for his pocket, kept reaching for the gold case of twists

that would have normally been there, was not there now.

Due to health concerns, military personnel were prohibited

from smoking. Not even a colone!'s aide could have broken

that rule. Xris put his hands behind his back, clasped one

hand over the other's wrist, held them firmly.

"How'd she manage to break into a military com-

puter?" Jamil wondered.

Xris shook his head. "How the hell should I know?

That's Darlene's department. She was on their payroll

for years, must have found more than a few back doors."

"Your car is on the way, sir," the corporal informed

them. "Colonel Strebbins extends his apologies."

Jamil curtly nodded, continued to stand in magnificent

and indignant aplomb at the window. Their backs to the

corporal, he and Xris exchanged glances. So far. So good.

Half an hour later, a black hovercar. adorned with a

small flag indicating colonel rank fluttering from the

front bumper, landed in front of the terminal. A private

in a very neat, very crisp dress uniform stepped out and

entered the terminal. Xris waved him down. The private

halted, gave a very neat, very crisp salute.

"Begging your pardon, Sir. The Base Commander,

Colonel Strebbins, sends his deepest apologies for the

delay. He says that he is very much looking forward to

the briefing tomorrow, Sir. Your Room in the VIP quar-

ters has been arranged. Captain, Sir, you will be staying

in the transient officer's quarters, next door. Colonel

Strebbins requests the pleasure of your company tonight

at his table at the Officer's Mess, 1900 hours for 1930

hours, if you wish."

 

 

 

 

 

Jamil nodded. "Yes, tell the colonel that Captain Ker-

gonan and I will indeed attend."

The private loaded their luggage into the hovercar.

The colonel entered the staff car, relaxed in cool luxury,

while Xris gave instructions to the corporal regarding

the delivery of the large and clumsy crate containing the

"exhibit" materials that was resting on the tarmac.

The corporal gazed at the shining specially designed

metal crate, with its myriad dials and gauges, all pre-

pared to provide the antique robot with a constant hu-

midity level, constant temperature, protection from the

contamination of unfamiliar environments, and other

comforts.

"That must be some exhibit, sir!" the corporal stated

in awe.

Xris pointed to the "biohazard contamination" symbol

he himself had added to the outside of the crate. "As

you can see, Corporal, this should be handled with ex-

treme care. The colonel and myself are the only ones

who have been trained in the procedures to allow us to

handle this material safely. Anyone else risks doing seri-

ous damage to the environment, perhaps to himself.

Understood?"

The corporal must have been wondering what all this

had to do with the topic of the colonel's lecture, "For-

eign Object Damage to Spaceplane Engines," but he

said nothing about that, assured Xris that the crate

would receive the very best treatment, and asked where

it should be delivered.

Xris walked over to the staff car, knocked on the win-

dow. Jamil pushed the button; the window slid down.

"Excuse me, Colonel, but the corporal wants to know

where you want the crate delivered."

"How the devil should I know?" Jamil said in an un-

dertone, glaring at Xris.

"What was that, Colonel?" Xris said, leaning his head

in the window. "Begging the colonel's pardon, but I

don't believe that location would be suitable," he added,

having heard Jamil mutter, "Up your ass!"

They had known in advance that the crate was going

to present a problem. It was equipped with air jets,

 

.which eased it gently over the ground. Xris wouldn't

have any difficulty getting it to the construction site, but

he couldn't very. well be seen taking the damn thing for

a stroll through the base after dark. Ideally, they needed

to stash it someplace near the site. And, at the moment,

they had no idea where the best place would be.

Sakuta's map of the base, provided by his colleague,

had obviously been drawn up by some ivory-tower intel-

lectual playing at being a commando. It was rife with

X's marking the ammunition dump, arrows pointing out

the guard posts, and was careful to note in red all the

back entrances to every building. Unfortunately, the

map maker had not thought it important to include in-

formation on such nmndane locations as warehouses and

storage sheds.

Xris and Jamil had agreed to play this one by ear,

ask the right questions, make their plans accordingly.

Generally Xris handled this sort of thing; he was good

at thinking on his feet. But Xris had now just dumped

the whole matter into Jamil's lap. Xris could always re-

trieve it, if he had to. He was all set to offer a suggestion

if Jamil bobbled the ball. This was payback for the lug-

gage toting.

Xris's head was in the window, where no one could

see him. He grinned, winked.

Jamil leaned forward. "Have the crate delivered to

your room, Captain."

The grin vanished from Xris's face. He said something

beneath his breath that no captain would ever say to a

colonel and expect to live through, drew back, stood up,

and gave the instructions to have the crate delivered to

his quarters. Actually, that was a damn good idea. It was

just too bad Jamil had to be the one to think of it.

He'd be certain to remind Xris of this when the time

for paychecks rolled around. The corporal looked dubi-

ous, but it wasn't his place to argue with either a captain

or a colonel.

Xris took his place in the front seat with the driver.

Jamil sat back in the cushy seat in the rear, folded his

arms, relaxed, and prepared to enjoy the ride.

 

 

 

 

Jamil's quarters were palatial. The army base on Pan-

dor didn't get many high-level visitors--it didn't get

many visitors of any level, apparently. Those who came

were treated royally. The aide pointed out the "honor"

bar down the hall. Each of the rooms had a fireplace

(the desert nights on Pandor were chill), marble4opped

desk, and bath facilities, and a rid entertainment system.

Xris was not so fortunate, as Jamil well knew, being

highly familiar with transient officers' quarters. The cy-

borg's room was clean and spacious. ("You have ample

room for the crate, Captain," Jamil had pointed out.)

The furniture was functional--about the only compli-

ment that could be paid it--consisted of a metal bed,-a

metal desk, and a metal sink. The crate sat on the floor.

Jamil was putting the finishing touches on his dress

uniform when Xris knocked on the door. Jamil invited

the captain hnside, shut the door, and reflexively ducked

the swing Xris took at him.

"That's for sticking me with that blasted crate," Xris

said in an undertone. He had already taken a twist out

of its case, which he had stashed in his steel bag. Thrust-

ing the twist in his mouth, he started to chew. He

glanced around. A lift of his eyebrow asked, You check

this place out?

Jamil nodded, went back to the nfirror to make final

adjustments. Both officers were in dress uniforms, well tai-

lored with all the proper insignia, patches, epaulets, and

suitable metals. Raoul was in charge of the team's wardrobe,

and the uniforms were in immaculate state, fit perfectly. Xris

and Jamil removed the few extra unmilitary adornments

which Raoul thought added "that certain touch."

"All right, we go over the plan again. After dinner--"

"After the port and the toasts," Jamil corrected. "And

they'll probably ask me to make a speech."

"Fine." Xris ground the word up with the twist.

"After all that, we traipse off to the bar--"

"The head table rises," Jamil said. "That's where I'll

be sitting. When we've left, then everyone is free to go

to the bar. I'll meet you there and--"

"And you'll send me on some sort of errand--"

 

"I'll order you to go check out the hall where I'll be

giving the lecture."

Xris pondered. "What if some bright-eyed lieutenant

wants to show it to me in person?"

"Not necessary. We wouldn't want to take him away

from the fun. I have a map. A good one," Jamil added,

casting a disparaging glance at Sakuta's map. "I'll stay

in the bar and keep the base commander busy."

"If possible, I'd like to find someplace to stash the

crate near the construction site. Once that's accom-

plished, I'll experiment, see how easy it is to get off-

base. If l make it, we go with Plan A. If not, we'll move

on to Plan B."

Jamil grinned. "My taste for Pandoran stout."

"Yeah. If either plan works, I'll have the 'bot safely

stowed in the crate by the time you give your lecture

tomorrow. You say--"

"1 say that I've run tests and the environment here

isn't suitable and so on and so forth and it would be

too dangerous to open the crate, so we'll have to forgo

the exhibits."

"Plan C, you don't even bring the crate. You explain

the same thing. I'll recover the robot during your lecture.

We pack up and leave."

"What about workmen at the construction site?"

"I talked to the private when he showed me the room.

The window overlooks the site, so it was a perfect oppor-

tunity to ask what's going on. He said that construction

had halted because of a crashed spaceship they found.

Guards are posted, but only on the road leading in. The

crash site's about five kilometers away from the main

entrance. They've placed portable electronic fencing

around the downed ship." Xris patted the compartment

in his cybernetic leg where he kept his tool and weapons

hands. "Nothing that can't be solved."

Jamil nodded. "It all seems dead easy."

"Yeah, doesn't it?" Xris shifted the wad of soggy twist

from one side of his mouth to the other. "I almost wish some

little something would go wrong, just to ease our minds."

"Bite your tongue!" Jamil admonished. "Nothing's

 

 

 

 

going to go wrong. We have every contingency covered

and, if all else fails, there's Plan D."

"Biological warfare." Xris shook his head. "I trust it

won't come to that. For one thing, I don't want to hang

around for twenty-four hours, waiting for everyone to

start racing for the latrines. But, just in case, I've located

the base water supply and I've got the germ mixture

Raoul concocted in a vial, locked up in the crate."

"You're sure this stuff is harmless?" Jamil asked.

"We're in enough trouble with the Lord Admiralty over

the Major Mohini episode as it is. I wouldn't want to

have to explain why we accidentally poisoned a couple

thousand military personnel."

"Raoul assured me that the most that will happen is

diarrhea and stomach cramps. A mild case of food poi-

soning, that's what it will look like. I had the Doc check

out Raoul's germs and Quong gave it the okay."

"Then I think we've got everything covered." Jamil

looked at his watch. "Nineteen hundred. You ready?"

Xris chewed rapidly, swallowed--regretfully--the last

of the twist. "You'll keep the speech short, won't you?"

he said, his hand on the door handle.

"Are you kidding?" Jamil was put out. "Do you know

how many of these ass-numbing speeches I had to sit

through in my day? Listening to some blowhard colonel

tell all about his experiences during the Faraqu Split,

how he held off six thousand crazed Faraqi with his side

arm alone?" Jamil rubbed his hands. "Now's my chance

for revenge!"

Xris eyed him. "If you think I'm going to sit there

and listen to you bullshit for thirty minutes ..."

"Oh, all right," Jamil grumbled. "But what's it worth

to you? Something extra in my paycheck?"

"How about a paycheck at all, Colonel? There's that

little matter of the luggage, not to mention a robot coffin

sitting on the floor in my bedroom." Jamil bargained. "Five minutes?"

"Three," Xris amended. "And I'll dock you one hun-

dred golden eagles for every minute over."

"Done." Jamil growled. "But you've shattered a dream."

Xris snorted, and the two walked out.

 

CHnPIER

q

 

The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a

thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and

steal out of your company.

 

William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing,

Act 3, Scene 3

 

~l~nd it was while I was standing in the desert at Far-

r~aqu, with six thousand wild-eyed Faraqi glaring

down at me from the heights, with only my needle-gun

left to defend myself and the women and children en-

trusted to my care, that I came to realize that the life

of the Royal Army officer is the best life in the universe!

God bless us all!"

Jamil sat down amid thunderous applause. He looked

out to Xris, seated with the other low-ranking officers.

The cyborg was pointing at his watch. Jamil had run two

minutes over. That would cost him plenty, but it had

been worth it. One crusty old major was actually wiping

a tear from his eye. A lovely blond captain was regard-

ing Jamil with admiration.

The base commander made a suitable reply. The offi-

cers at the head table rose and departed in state, all

looking very solemn and well fed. The meal had been

actually quite decent. Colonel Strebbins spent a goodly

portion of the meal relating the story of how he had

swiped the cook from the 1083rd, stationed on Vangelis

II. The port after dinner had been excellent.

Now the officers were free to retire to the more infor-

 

 

 

 

mal and relaxed atmosphere of the bar, a separate room

attached to the dining area. The major was pumping

JamiFs hand and wanting to discuss the inept strategy

and tactics at Faraqu. Jamil made polite excuses and

walked over to the bar, where the blond captain was

talking to Xris.

"Your speech was so inspiring, Colonel," she said,

after Xris had made introductions.

"One might call it 'golden,'" Xris said under his

breath, but loud enough for Jamil to hear.

Jamil cut neatly in between Xris and the blond cap-

tain. "Captain Kergonan," he said over his shoulder, "I

think you should go check on the arrangements for my

talk tomorrow."

"Yes, sir, Colonel," Xris said, putting his untasted

drink back down on the bar.

It occurred to Jamil that Xris left far too quickly and

far too obediently, particularly when he must have no-

ticed the blond captain frowning in disappointment at

the cyborg's leaving. Jamil figured something was up,

was convinced of it when he saw Xris pause on the way

out the door to speak to Colonel Strebbins. Xris might

just be making polite remarks about the dinner, but

Jamil was on his guard. He asked the captain what she

thought of the inept strategy that led to the defeat at

Faraqu.

The two were settling down to a comfortable conver-

sation when Colonel Strebbins loomed up. "Wonderful

speech, Colonel," he said. "I see you've met Captain

Strauss. Best shot on the base with a lasrifle. Had our

qualifters last week."

"Thank you, Colonel." The captain flushed with plea-

sure at the compliment.

Strebbins turned to Jamil. "Your aide tells me that

you have a particular interest in how we run things here

on Pandot. He suggested I come over here now and give

you the complete lowdown." He glanced at the blonde.

"I don't want to bore you, Captain ..."

"If you'll excuse me, sir?" Captain Strauss gave Jamil

a smile, picked up her drink, and left.

Colonel Strebbins leaned his elbow on the bar and

 

began. "When I took command six years ago, this base

had one of the lowest efficiency ratings in this quadrant.

Since that time, I ..."

Jamil listened, nodded, sipped his drink, silently

cursed Xris, and swore to get even.

 

An hour later, the colonel was launching into an ac-

count of the base's new morale-boosting program, com-

plete with a description of the enlisted personnel's sock

hop and talent show, when conversations paused, heads

in the bar started turning, people began looking toward

the front foyer.

"By God," Strebbins said, interrupting himself. He set

down his empty glass on the counter. "What's all this.'?"

Jamil, thankful for any interruption, looked to see

what all the fuss was about.

Two officers stood in the entryway. One--a pilot--

was still wearing her flight suit, carried her helmet under

her arm. Jamil raised his eyebrows. The pilot had com-

mitted a serious breach of etiquette. You didn't walk

into the officer's mess in a flight suit unless you had a

damn good reason. The patches on her shoulder indi-

cated that she flew a Stiletto precision bombel-, Zircon

Squadron. Not stationed here. The fact that she still car-

ried her helmet meant she intended to leave again

swiftly.

The other officer wore the standard dress uniform,

with the rank of major, though the gold-braided aguillet

around one shoulder identified him as an aide-de-camp

for a lieutenant general or higher. The major removed

his beret and entered the bar area. He walked straight

up to Colonel Strebbins.

"This man appears to have urgent business for you,

Colonel," Jamil said, lifting his drink and preparing to

leave, feeling relieved that he'd been spared an account

of the talent show. "I'11 leave you--"

"Excuse me, sirs," the major said, including them both

in his glance. "I am Major VanDerGard of General

Hanson's staff. 1 have been sent to immediately retrieve

Colonel Jatanski."

Jamil gulped, stared. He decided to set down his drink

 

 

 

 

before he dropped it. His first thought was: Xris. Xris

has set this up, damn him.

Figuring that, Jamil was just about to make some

smart-ass remark when he took a good close look at

the serious-eyed major, at the major's gold braid, at the

uniform that was rumpled with travel. Then there was

the obviously flight-weary pilot waiting in the foyer.

Jamil's gut tightened. Not even Xris could pull off a

stunt like this. Plus he would never do anything to jeop-

ardize the job. Whatever this was, it was for real.

"Yes, Major," Jamil said, hoping astonishment would

cover apprehension. "I'm Colonel Jantanski. What is

it?"

"Sir, you are requested to be the assisting officer for

Lieutenant Colonel K. A. Katchan. As the lieutenant

colonel's commanding officer, you are the first choice for

assisting officer, and the lieutenant colonel has chosen

you. His Special General Court-Martial is to sit for open-

ing statements in thirty hours, and you will need to begin

work immediately."

Colonel Strebbins was grave. "Well, Jatanski, it looks

as if one of your people has gone off the deep end. I

don't envy you this one. Sorry I won't get to see your

presentation tomorrow. This sounds serious, though."

Jamil had read many times the standard author's cli-

chfi about a character who feels suddenly as if he has

entered a dream. Jamil didn't dream; he prided himself

on the fact that he slept soundly throughout the night,

was not one to wake suddenly screaming from the throes

of a nightmare.

Not until now.

Now he was in one of those frightful dreamlike situa-

tions in which everything is going wrong, you know it's

going wrong, you want to try to fix it, but you are power-

less to act. Jamil knew he should say something, but

he could only stand staring at the major in speechless

amazement while his brain scrambled to make some

sense of the senseless.

Jamil thought back. Katchan! I remember a Katchan.

He served under me ... but that was six years ago! And

Katchan had been a supply sergeant! They don't nor-

 

mally promote supply sergeants to lieutenant colonel!

To say nothing of the fact that I'm not in the Army

anymore. I haven't been in the Army for years. I can't

serve on a court-martial. I'm not a colonel! Most of all--I'm not Colonel Jatanski!

The game's up, Jamil realized. Someone's found out.

Xris and I are going to be doing a long stretch in the

brig.

Okay, but if that's true, where are the MPs? The beam

rifles? The manacles? The Army doesn't usually play

games, especially with people impersonating their

officers.

The major was regarding Jamil with respect, Colonel

Strebbins with sympathy.

"You look a bit rocky on your feet, Jatanski. Comes

as a shock to you, I expect." Strebbins motioned to the

sergeant behind the bar. "Another drink for the colonel.

Make it a double."

"Thank you," Jamil said faintly. "Katchan is an excel-

lent officer. Never gave me cause for complaint.

What"--he put the glass to his lips, tried to look ca-

sual--"what is the charge?"

"Theft of government property," the major replied.

Jamil gagged, choked.

"Steady, there, Jatanski," Strebbins said solicitously,

pounding Jamil on the back.

Are the MPs arresting Xris right now? Jamil won-

dered. Is this a ruse to get us both off base without

trouble, without publicity?

He set down his empty glass. "1'11 have to find Captain

Kergonan--"

"That won't be necessary, sir. The captain is to carry

on as planned," the major said.

Janill stared, stunned. "I beg your pardon, Major?"

"General Hanson feels that Captain Kergonan is emi-

nently qualified to carry on in your absence," the major

elaborated. "The captain is quite familiar with the sub-

ject material and is capable of handling the assignment

on his own. Wouldn't you agree, Colonel Jatanski?"

"Yes, eminently," Jamil murmured. He shoved him-

self away from the bar. Perhaps I can find Xris, warn

 

 

 

 

him. This smells like a trap. "I'll just go back to my

quarters, get my gear."

"I'm sorry, sir, but we need you to come straight to

the spaceplane. The trial is being held on the command

cruiser King James II, General Hanson's flagship. It is

just now entering this system. Captain Ng will fly us

back." The major turned to Strebbins. "If you could

send someone for the colonel's luggage, sir ..."

"Certainly," Strebbins said heartily.

"That won't be necessary," Jamil intervened. He had

a few things in his luggage he'd just as soon not be

discovered, things like a nonregulation .23-decawatt pis-

tol, the vial containing the water-contaminating virus,

the hand-drawn map of the base. "Captain Kergonan

will take care of it for me."

"Are you sure?" Strebbins asked. "You don't Want to

go before old Iron Guts Hanson without a clean pair

of socks."

"Yes, no question." Jamil was firm. "Captain Kergo-

nan will take care of everything. If you would give him

that message--that he is to carry on 'in my absence." He

glanced uncertainly at the major.

The major nodded. "General Hansoh's orders, sir."

He reached into the pocket of his flight jacket, pulled

out an envelope containing a disk. "I have that in writ-

ing. If you could see that Captain Kergonan receives

this, sir?"

"I'11 see to it," Strebbins said, took the computer disk,

stood tapping it on the bar.

Jamil stared at the disk, wished he could get a look

at the orders, but it would have been coded to Xris's

military I.D. number and personal password.

Of course, Xris didn't have a real military I.D. num-

ber, nor did he have a real password. He'd made that all

up, had instructed Darlene to enter it into the military's

computer files before they left. Someone had gone to

one hell of a lot of trouble to ferret them out! And for what'? Jamil had no idea.

"If you please, sir. The spaceplane is being refueled.

The car is waiting." The major was obviously impatient

to leave.

 

Strebbins offered his hand. "Good luck, Jatanski. Glad

it's you and not me. Hate these damn courts-martial.

Always put me to sleep. And I was really looking for-

ward to your lecture, too. But l've no doubt that Captain

Kergonan will manage fine."

"I'm sure he will, sir," Jamil said.

"We have every confidence in the captain, sir,"

the major added, saluting. He accompanied Jamil out

of the bar, into the foyer. Here he introduced Jamil to

the pilot, who nodded curtly and intimated that they

were running behind schedule.

A vehic was waiting for them outside the mess; not

the staff car, with its fluttering flags, but a hoverjeep.

The major kept close behind him. Jamil ignored the

man, paused a moment, glanced around, hoping against

hope to catch a glimpse of Xris. No such luck.

Jamil climbed in the back of the hoverjeep alongside

the major. The pilot sat in front. Major VanDerGard

apologized for not taking the staff car to the airfield.

"This is quicker, sir, if less comfortable."

They had all just barely settled themselves when the

driver launched the jeep into the air, sped toward the

airfield.

The ride was fast and uneventful. No one said much

of anything, mainly because no one else would have

been able to hear what was said over the roar and rattle

of the hoverjeep, which had seen better days. VanDer-

Gard must have commandeered the first vehic he found.

The pilot sat up front beside the driver, keeping fast

hold of her helmet on her lap. She paid no attention

to them, never once glanced back. VanDerGard braced

himself in his corner, one arm on the doorframe. Jamil

kept a firm grip on the back of the seat.

The hoverjeep was covered with a fine coat of the red

Pandoran sand. The jeep's frame rattled and shook and

bounced over the uneven terrain. Its air jets must have

been out of sync, for there was a noticeable dip to the

back end. Twice Jamil was bounced off his seat, struck

his head on the detachable roof. Both times, when that

 

 

 

 

happened, VanDerGard smiled in rueful apology, just as

he might have done in the presence of a real colonel.

Jamil gave up trying to figure what all this was about.

No use wasting his energies on guesses. He was stum-

bling about in the dark and while he might accidentally

put his hand on the correct answer, how would he know

it? This concluded, he ran quickly through his options.

There weren't many. He could, of course, punch

VanDerGard in the face, grab his gun (interesting point;

the major was wearing a sidearm), shoot the pilot and

the driver, and make a run for it.

And go where, exactly? And do what?

Besides, VanDerGard didn't look the type to collapse

in a heap at one punch. And if he was armed, the pilot

probably was armed, too. Jamil discarded that idea

about five seconds after he'd thought it up. Since he

couldn't think of anything else constructive, he decided

his best bet was to keep playing the game. Besides, by

now, he was extremely curious.

His curiosity would probably land him in the brig for

about twenty years for impersonating an officer, but he

couldn't help it. He was interested to know just what

the devil was going on. The only way to find out was

to go along with the agenda--whatever that happened

to be.

The jeep entered the airfield, the driver looked around

for directions. Major VanDerGard pointed, indicated a

glistening Stiletto bomber parked at the very end of the

tarmac. The tubular fuselage gleamed in the moonlight.

Its green and gray camouflage enhanced the sleek look.

It was designed for precision bombing, both in and out

of atmosphere. The spaceplane sat high on its wheels,

indicating that it did not have a bomb load, but the racks

of missiles under the wings were real--no practice weap-

ons here. What was known as a wild-weasel pod hung

from the central hard-point.

The jeep pulled up beside a refueling bowser. The

crew was just finishing refueling the bomber and were

starting to replace the hoses back in the bowser.

The pilot jumped out almost before the jeep came to

a stop. She began walking around the spaceplane, check-

 

ing it over to ensure it was sound for flight. Two mem-

bers of the ground crew were inside the cockpit,

readying it for the pilot. The major climbed out of the

jeep, walked around, opened the door for Jamil, saluted

when he stepped out.

Jamil studied the man's face. If Jamil had seen one

flicker of an eyelid, one sardonic curl of the lip, any

indication at all that VanDerGard knew he was acting a

role, Jamil might have reconsidered and taken on the

major then and there.

VanDerGard saluted respectfully, his face grave and

solemn as befitted the occasion. Jamil returned the ma-

jor's salute and stepped onto the tarmac. VanDerGard

walked over to the bombardier's hatch, reached inside,

pulled out a set of coverails and a flight helmet, and

handed them to Jamil. The major reached back for a set

of flight clothes for himself and began to slip the cover-

alls on over his uniform.

Jamil glanced swiftly around. The pilot had moved on

to the back end of the spaceplane. The ground crew

were occupied some distance away.

VanDerGard glanced up, noticed Jamil wasn't dress-

ing. "Don't those fit, sir? There's a size larger--"

"Look, Major, let's cut the crap," Jamil said tersely.

"You and 1 both know--"

"--that Katchan is innocent of these charges, is that

what you were about to say, Colonel?" VanDerGard

shrugged. "I like to think so, sir, but I must add that,

from what I've seen, the evidence against him is very

strong. You should be getting ready, sir," he advised,

seeing that Jamil wasn't moving. "We'll be leaving

shortly."

And that was that.

Jamil slid the coverails on over his uniform, accepted

the flight helmet, and waited for the pilot to indicate

they were ready to take off. He looked out over the

tarmac back to the base, wondered if Xris knew his part-

ner was gone yet, what he was doing about it. Jamil was

tense, prepared for action. It was unlikely that Xris

would be putting together some sort of rescue attempt,

 

 

 

 

 

but Jamil had to be alert and ready to react if that

happened.

It didn't.

The pilot indicated that all was ready. She climbed up

the ladder and took her place in the cockpit.

The two senior officers boarded the bomber by climb-

ing a ladder in the open bomb bay, leading into the crew

area. They strapped themselves into the communicator's

and the bombardier's chairs. The pilot wound up the

engines. To anyone accustomed to flying in the relative

comfort of fighter spaceplanes, the engine noise inside

the larger and heavier bomber was deafening. Jamil gri-

maced, wondered how any living being could take this.

A hand touched his arm. VanDerGard pointed to a cord

with a jack on one end which hung from Jamil's helmet

to a socket in the bulkhead.

Jamil plugged in the jack, and all was blessedly quiet.

The helmet's noise filters completely removed the engine

whine and the creaks and strains of the fuselage. He

looked outside the small porthole. A storm was moving

in over the desert; lightning shot through the clouds that

were building fast in the heat.

Jamil bid Xris a silent and rueful good-bye, wished

them both luck, and prepared for takeoff. He was seated

in the communicator's chair. A voice came over his

helmet.

"Navy Three Five Niner Zircon, you are cleared for

priority launch on runway Two Niner. All traffic is

cleared of your launch and egress vectors. Have a good

flight. Pandor Tower out."

The pilot wasted no time. The spaceplane--clumsy

and awkward on the ground, graced with a deadly

beauty in space--lurched forward, taxied to the runway.

The takeoff and flight were, in Navy terms, uneventful,

despite the fact that lightning struck the fuselage of the

spaceplane at least three times that Jamil counted. He

expected all sorts of dire consequences, from the engines

blowing up to the electrical systems going haywire, but

nothing happened. The pilot didn't seem bothered by

the strikes. VanDerGard apparently hadn't even noticed.

Jamil quit looking out the viewscreen. Gritting his teeth,

 

sweating and nervous, clutching the arms of the seat, he

faced grimly forward. He detested space flight. This was

exactly the reason why he'd joined the Army. Ninety

percent of the time, your feet were on solid ground.

Once into space, the pilot kicked in the radiation drive

and exited the Pandoran solar system. Jamil looked out

the viewscreen again. A tiny speck of light, no brighter

than the stars around it, began to grow larger. Jamil

stared at it and, forgetting where he was and under what

circumstances, he whistled.

"Never seen a command cruiser before, sir?" Van-

DerGard asked.

"Not for a very long time," Jamil answered truthfully.

"And they never looked like that! My god, but she's

huge."

"The King James H is one of the new Septimus Sev-

erus Class command cruisers," VanDerGard said with

obvious pride. "She was only commissioned four months

ago. The king and queen both attended the launching

ceremonies."

The ship was larger in area than many cities, held

more people. Its blue-gray durasteel hull shone in the

reflected light of Pandor's distant sun. Lights from hun-

dreds of portholes sparkled on its surface. Its hull was

smooth, sleek, unmarred by antennae, guns, torpedo

tubes, lascannons or any other weapon mounts.

But they were there. Harry--who kept up on all the

Navy's new designs--had gone on for days about how

all the weapons and other instruments had been built

into the hull. When the ship went into action, she must

be an awesome sight. Jamil imagined gunports sliding

open, torpedo launch mounts lifting into place. He was

so interested, he almost forgot that he was likely to see

more of this ship than he wanted. Like the brig.

VanDerGard was conferring with the pilot. Probably

requesting the armed escort, the leg irons and shackles.

Well, as his old sergeant used to say when they came

under enemy bombardment, nothing to do but hunker

down, sweat it out.

Jamil hunkered down and began to sweat.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER

10

 

Now is the time for all good men to come to the

aid of the party.

 

Charles Welter

 

Customs was not as bad as Darlene had anticipated.

After a critical inspection, she wasn't required to

wear a mask, as were some of her more unfortunate

fellow passengers. The customs agent did recommend,

however, that she do something with her hair. Having

assured the agent that this would be her first priority,

Darlene offered the computer case and her overnight

bag for inspection. The agent cast a bored look at the

computer and a skeptical look at the small and shabby

overnight bag.

"How long are you staying?" he asked.

"A week," Darlene replied. "I'm here for Carnival."

The agent lifted a plucked and skeptical eyebrow.

Opening her carry-on, he peered disdainfully inside.

"You are going to one of the nude colonies, 1 assume,"

he said.

Darlene added hurriedly, "I'm here on a shopping

spree. I plan to buy a whole new wardrobe."

The agent indicated--with a meaningful glance at

what she was currently wearing--that this would cer-

tainly be highly advisable. With a languid wave of his

hand, he passed her on through.

Darlene was leaving customs, smiling over this episode

and searching for Raoul, when she encountered a party

 

of Adonians who were most obviously on their way to

visit one of the nude colonies. It was an impressive sight.

Darlene was still staring when Raoul and the Little One

found her.

Raoul greeted her with a fond hug and kisses, as if

they'd been separated for thirty years, not thirty min-

utes. This was the typical Adonian form of welcome,

however, as she learned from the kissing, hugging throng

around her.

"You're not masked! Congratulations!" Raoul gushed,

then paused--fearful--and asked in a loud whisper,

"What did they say about your hair?"

"I'm to have it done," she whispered back.

"Nothing more than that? I thought they might sen-

tence you to ... Well, never mind. They didn't." Raoul

breathed a sigh. "We're not out of this yet, though."

He looked around, all directions, scrutinizing the

crowd closely. Darlene, assuming he was searching for

the Hung assassin, was about to ask him if he had no-

ticed anyone suspicious, when he pulled out a silken

scarf from his purse and handed it to her.

"Put this over your head," he said in the hushed tones.

"We have to reach my abode safely and the magnet is

simply crawling with cops."

Darlene might have welcomed this, had she thought

the police were posted in the "magnet" (whatever that

was) for the protection of the citizenry. Knowing Adoni-

ans, however, she guessed that the cops would be far

more interested in outrages perpetrated against fashion

than such sordid and distasteful crimes as muggings,

theft, or murder. No doubt they would arrest her assas-

sin if he gunned her down in public (especially if he

splattered blood on someone's fine white leather shoes).

But the police would be apt to arrest the assassin a

whole lot faster if he was wearing polyester at the time.

Accordingly, Darlene tied the scarf around her head

and accompanied Raoul through the spaceport to the

baggage claim, to arrange for the delivery of f6urteen

trunks--all the clothing he considered necessary for a

week's vacation.

"I hope I brought enough," he said worriedly, watch-

 

 

 

 

ing the trunks slide down the conveyer. "Yes, what is

it?" he asked distractedly.

The Little One was tugging on Raoul's sleeve. They

held one of their silent conversations, then Raoul turned

to Darlene.

"The Little One says that no one is following you,

that no one is taking the least bit of interest in you. The

scarf's working," he continued, and, nodding in satisfac-

tion, he began pointing out trunks to a luggage re-

trieval 'bot.

"Thank you," Darlene said gratefully to the Little

One.

The fedora nodded. The small hands came out of the

raincoat pockets, fluttered about the head. which jerked

in the direction of Raoul. The small shoulders shrugged.

Yes. thought Darlene, that pretty much says it all.

Having determined that all his trunks were present

and accounted for, Raoul entered the delivery data into

the 'bot, added a generous tip. ("I forgot to tip once."

Raoul sniffed. "Only six trunks made it. The rest of my

clothes ended up spending Carnival in Jardina. I trust

they had a good time. I couldn't set foot outside the

house!") The three left the spaceport, headed for the

main form of transportation in Adonian cities, known as

the magnet.

The magnet was a glistening silver commuter train

which ran whisper-soft and extremely fast over magne-

tized tracks. Magnets went everywhere in an Adonian

city, and people went everywhere in them. Driving one-

self around in one's own vehic was considered de-

meaning, not to mention the fact driving was stressful,

which caused wrinkles, and being seated in a vehic any

length of time was thought to contribute to poor posture.

A short walk through the spaceport--walking was

good for a person, developed shapely calves--brought

them to the magnet station. Like the spaceport and

every other building in Adonia, the station was the epi-

tome of luxury, comfort, the very latest in style and

design.

Traveling in the magnet, gazing out the windows, Dar-

lene marveled at the beauty of the world. Every object

 

she looked on--even an object as mundane as a waste

container--was elegant in shape, graceful in design,

lovely to behold. Mountains, valleys, sky, grass, trees,

flowers, rivers, buildings, people, animals--all were

comely to look upon, pleasing to the eye.

"I'd probably grow tired of this if I lived here," she

said to herself. "Like eating candy. I couldn't make a

steady diet of it. But a dark chocolate raspberry truffle

now and then is heaven."

Raoul lived in the city of Kanapalia, which was lo-

cated on the larger of Adonia's two continents. Kanap-

alia, built on the side of a mountain, overlooking the

glittering blue waters of the Bay of Kanapalia, might be

described as a resort city. But then so could every other

city on Adonia.

Since factories--ugly, dirty, smelly things--were not

allowed on the Adonian home world, all materials which

required manufacturing were imported. This made the

cost of living extraordinarily high on Adonia, but since

only those with high levels of income were permitted to

remain on-world, the high cost of goods was not a prob-

lem. Any Adonian whose income fell below a certain

level was deported. Poverty is so unsightly.

Kanapalia, with its year-round perfect climate, its

magnificent views of mountain and sea, its picturesque

mansions adoming the cliffs, its splendid, sun-drenched

beauty, brought tears to the eyes of the off-worlders. As,

of course, it should. Most Adonians were well-traveled.

They'd been to other parts of the galaxy, mainly in order

to reassure themselves that, after all, there was no place

like home.

Seated in the comfort and elegance of the magnet,

with its wide leather-cushioned seats, its quietly ap-

pointed interior that was not permitted to draw attention

away from the spectacular scenes of mountain, sea, and

clear cobalt sky, Darlene felt herself start to slip under

the spell of Adonia. The beauty of the world, the beauty

of its people, the air that blew bright and crisp from the

sea acted on an off-worlder like one of the mind-altering

drugs which were so easy to obtain in this planet of

pleasure. Darlene began to feel that nothing bad could

 

 

 

 

happen to her here. Evil--ugly, dirty, smelly--would

never be permitted on Adonia.

Darlene knew very well that she was deluding herself.

But it was delightful to give in to the delusion. She'd

lived in the isolation of safe, sterilized surroundings for

too long. She had been afraid for too many years, afraid

of the bureau, afraid of the Hung, afraid of co-workers,

afraid of friends. No ... that was not true. She'd had no

friends to fear. Her sole refuge was work, her altar the

computer. As long as she knelt before it, nothing and

no one could drag her out of sanctuary.

At least that's what she'd thought, until Xris crashed

through the sealed and locked doors of her sterile world.

Intending her death, he'd brought her back to life. And

now she meant to enjoy it.

Darlene Rowan quit searching every face on-board

the magnet to see if it was the face of an assassin. She

quit looking constantly at the Little One, to see if he

had tuned in to any hostile thoughts aimed at her. She

packed up all her worries and her fears and stowed

them away.

Unfortunately, she stowed them in her computer case,

which was still carrying, though she didn't know it. the

tattle-tell transmitter.

 

Raoul's chateau was small, by Adonian standards.

Gleaming white, with a red-tile roof, it nestled against

the mountainside, overlooked the crashing waves of the

sea beneath. But the chateau, though small, had all the

necessities of life: swimming pool, whirlpool, sauna, or-

namental fish pond, ornamental garden, fountain in the

courtyard, atrium, aviary.

Considering Raoul's flamboyant taste in clothes, Dar-

lene was pleasantly surprised to find his chateau decor-

ated with taste and elegance. There are strict laws

governing interior decorating on the books of every

major city of Adonia, however, and this had something

to do with it, as Raoul was free to admit.

Left to his own devices, Raoul expressed a longing for

an orange crushed-velvet sofa in combination with a hot

pink coffee table with gilt edges. This being illegal, as

 

described in the Decorator's Code, Section Twenty-six,

Paragraph H, he was forced to make do with mahogany

and leather, silk curtains and hand-woven rugs. Sheets

were of linen and cambric, edged with lace. Down com-

forters were warm and would make Darlene feel as if

she were going to bed in whipped cream. The first thing

Raoul did, on arriving at his home, was to send for the

hairdresser.

"I didn't know beauticians made house calls," Dar-

lene said.

"Only in emergencies," was Raoul's reply.

And that was the last she saw or heard of him for the

next three days. Raoul entered into the throes of plan-

ning his party. Less planning has gone into the taking

over of small countries.

~'The main objective," Raoul stated, laying out his bat-

tle plan for the edification of the Little One, "is to van-

quish Raj Vu."

The fedora nodded agreement, the bright eyes be-

neath the fedora gleanled with fighting fervor.

The enemy, Raj Vu, was an Adonian who lived four

mansions and a palace up the road from Raoul and was

considered by everyone in Kanapalia, including Raj Vu

himself, to be the crowned czar of party-giving. His guest

list was highly selective and you knew you were some-

body on Adonia if you received an invitation to one of

Raj Vu's affairs.

Despite the fact that they were almost neighbors,

Raoul had not received an invitation. Raj Vu had once

been overheard referring to Raoul as "that grubby little

poisoner and his dog-in-a-raincoat toadie." Raoul's

friends considered it their duty to tell him this and did

so the moment they were sober enough to recall it. Not

long ago, however, Raoul had been instrumental in sav-

ing the life of the queen; he and the Little One having

helped thwart a kidnapping attempt on Her Majesty.

Both had been invited to the palace, both had been on

galaxy-wide news. Raoul could claim, and often did, that

he and the queen were dear friends.

Not long after, Raoul had received an invitation to

one of Raj Vu's parties. Though highly incensed by the

 

 

 

 

 

"grubby little poisoner" remark and hating Raj Vu quite

devotedly, Raoul felt it his duty to attend the party on

"a reconnaissance mission," as he stated. He expected

to have a dreadful time but would suffer through it for

the good of the cause. He suffered to such an extent

that he was forced to take to his bed three days later,

when the party ended, and it was a week before he could

lift his head from his pillow or consume solid food. It

was at that moment Raoul declared (in a whisper) that

he would outparty Raj Vu or perish in the attempt.

The day he arrived on Adonia, Raoul called a meeting

of his chiefs of staff, these being the caterer, the hired

bartenders, the plant renters, the pool cleaners, the tent

makers, the groundskeepers, the carpenters, the wine

steward, and the butler. There were the local police to

be bribed, the fire department forewarned, the hospital

put on alert.

"I'm a nervous wreck," he complained to the Little

One the morning of the day before the event.

They were breakfasting on the terrace. Raoul

smoothed his hair, which was being ruffled by a mild

breeze. He sipped his warm cocoa, tossed bits of his

croissant to the swans in the ornamental pond, and re-

peated his complaint. "A nervous wreck. I don't know

whether I'm coming or going." He moved his chair to

keep out of the bright sunlight, which would have a dev-

astating effect on his complexion.

"And do I receive any help?" Raoul continued, his

tone becoming plaintive. "I knew I could expect nothing

from Darlene. I counted on forty-eight hours at least to

get her into shape and it looks as if I'm not going to be

far wrong. The manicurist left in tears, did I tell you? I

had to promise to pay the woman double to persuade

her to come back. But I might have expected better from

you, my friend. You've been no help to me at all. No

help whatsoever."

The Little One growled, hunched down in the rain-

coat, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared moodily

out at the pond.

"If you won't tell me what's bothering you," Raoul

 

went on, "I can't be expected to sympathize. Here, have

a muffin. Perhaps you're hypoglycemic."

The Little One took the muffin and lobbed it irritably

at the swan, striking the bird squarely on the beak. The

swan swam off in indignation.

"Nice shot," said Darlene, coming to join them. She

poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down. "What's the

matter with him?"

Raoul shrugged. "He's been in a bad mood ever since

we arrived on Adonia. Actually, ever since we left Meg-

apolis. He refuses to discuss the matter. He won't tell

me what's wrong. He's going to ruin my party," Raoul

concluded in tragic tones. "I just know it."

The Little One growled again, but appeared remorse-

ful at having upset his friend. Squirming about in his

chair, the telepath lifted his hands, fists clenched, in a

gesture of frustration.

Darlene regarded him in concern. "He does seem

upset."

"I understand that something's bothering you," Raoul

continued, dabbing at the corner of one eye with the

sleeve of his silken bed jacket. He turned a pleading

gaze to the Little One. "But couldn't it bother you just

as well after the party as before?"

The Little One decided, on consideration, that it

couldn't.

"It's not me, is it?" Raoul asked, the thought suddenly

occurring to him. "I haven't done anything to upset you,

have IT'

The Little One was emphatic, shook his head.

"I didn't think so," Raoul said complacently, "but it

never hurts to ask."

"Not me?" Darlene wondered. "Any assassins lurk-

ing about?"

The Little One again shook his head.

"You say he was upset before we left," Darlene said,

thoughtful. "Is it Xris?"

The Little One's head jerked up. The bright eyes

gleamed at her from beneath the fedora.

"It is Xris!" Darlene was alarmed. "Something's hap-

pened to Xris?"

 

 

 

 

 

The Little One again shook his head.

"Something's going to happen to Xris?"

"The Little One is a telepath, my dear, not a psychic,"

Raoul said, eating a dish of strawberries in cream.

The Little One did not immediately reply. He stared

out from beneath the brim of the fedora, stared into the

cloudless sky, stared out farther than that, perhaps, with

the fixed, narrow-eyed intensity of someone endeavoring

to penetrate the mists of a thick fog.

He failed. His gaze dropped. He pummeled himself

on the head, knocking the fedora askew. Then, glower-

ing, he laid his arms on the table, rested his small chin

disconsolately on his arms.

"There! You see! He's going to ruin my party. Abso-

lutely ruin it!"

"The hell with your party," Darlene snapped. "I'm

worried about Xris. I think-- Oh, dear, no! I'm sorry. I

didn't mean ..."

Her apologies were too late. Raoul had fainted dead

away.

A glass of champagne, applied swiftly, restored the

Adonian, assisted him to recover from the staggering

shock of hearing his party consigned to the nether

regions.

"I truly didn't mean it," Darlene repeated remorse-

fully, patting Raoul on the wrist.

"I know you didn't, my dear," he said with a wan

smile. "And I forgive you."

"But if the Little One does think that something might

be going wrong for Xris, we should try to find out what

it is," Darlene pursued.

"I'm certain that Xris Cyborg would not want to ruin

my party. He would permit nothing to happen to him

that would interfere."

"I'm sure he wouldn't," Darlene agreed gravely. "If

he could help it. But what if he can't? Would you ask

the Little One to try to describe what he's feeling?

Maybe we'll get a clue."

Raoul sighed despairingly, but since it was at least half

an hour until the caterer was due to arrive, he supposed

he could indulge the odd whims of his guest.

 

The question being put to the Little One, the telepath

concentrated to such an extent that the hat gradually

slid down over his eyes, obliterating them completely.

At length he shrugged, scratched his head through the

fedora, and looked up at Raoul, who appeared slightly

perplexed.

"As nearly as I can make out, he says he feels as

if he'd been shopping and found this charming blouse,

absolutely perfect, lace trim on the cuffs and tiny pearl

buttons and it fits like a dream and it's on sale! Well,

he gets it home, puts it on and"--Raoul raised his eyes

to heaven--"the sleeve falls off!"

"He said that?" Darlene was skeptical.

"Not precisely in those words," Raoul admitted. "He

left it to me to translate. But I believe that this accu-

rately describes what he is feeling. Are you going to

contact Xris Cyborg?"

"There's no way I can contact him," Darlene said,

eyeing the Little One worriedly. "He and Jamil are al-

ready on the Army base. We're not supposed to contact

them--"

"Except in an emergency," Raoul interrupted.

Darlene thought it over, shook her head. "What

would I say? Be careful because the Little One is experi-

encing strange feelings he can't explain?"

Raoul considered. "You might tell Xris to examine

carefully the stitching on any shirts he purchases."

At this, the Little One let out a screech--a startling

and unnerving sound, which caused the swan to flutter

in the water and head for the opposite shore. Shaking his

fists in disgust--perhaps at Raoul, perhaps at Darlene,

perhaps at the swan, or perhaps at nothing--the Little

One slid off the chair and stomped moodily into the

house, angrily kicking the raincoat's hem with each step.

"Oh, God! My party," Raoul moaned, and collapsed

onto the table, his head pillowed on his arms.

"Oh, God ... Xris," Darlene murmured.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER

11

 

"Absent friends."

 

Toast for the day, Sunday, Royal Navy

 

On leaving the officers' mess, Xris took a quick stroll

to the part of the base located near the construction

site. He was pleased to note that, while it was a part of

the base in use during the day, it was likely to be de-

serted at night. This was the base maintenance area; veh-

ics of all sorts, in various states of disrepair, were

parked here.

Up against the fence sat three PV-L Devastator light

tanks, two with their power packs removed, one with

the turret half disassembled. Utility trucks in winter

camouflage stood in a line, probably recently arrived

from off-world and waiting for a desert paint job. A

seventy-two-ton hoverwrecker gleamed at the end of the

row. The wrecker was the pride of the workshop and

proudly displayed the maintenance symbol on the front

bumper. A sergeant was still about. The man glanced at

Xris curiously as he sauntered past; the sight of a

stranger in this area was enough to arouse his interest.

Xris walked over. "Evening, Sergeant." Xris gazed

around the garage with the fond expression of someone

who was returned home after a prolonged absence.

"Captain," said the sergeant, glowering and wiping his

greasy hands on a rag. This was the sergeant's domain

and he was clearly suspicious of high-ranking intrusion.

"Can I do something for you, sir?"

 

"Not at the moment, Sergeant. I've got a warning light

on a remote-controlled, temperature-regulated storage

crate. I'd like you to take a look at it."

"Pardon me, sir, but ... warning against what?"

"Biohazard. There's nothing to worry about, though.

The warning light isn't flashing like it's warning against

anything. It's flashing like it's malfunctioning. I can tell

the difference."

"Yes, sir." The sergeant was not convinced.

"And there's nothing to worry about unless the crate

is opened in an improper manner. Certain systems have

to be shut down first, in the correct order. Any mistake

there and .. 7' Xris shrugged, left the details to the ser-

geant's imagination, which must have been fairly active.

The sergeant backed up a step, glanced nervously

around. "Did you bring the crate with you, sir?"

"No. I didn't want to lug the damn thing around with

me while I searched for maintenance. I'll drop it off

tonight. You can check it out tomorrow. Where should

I stash it?"

"How about over there, sir? Next to that hoverjeep

with the banged-up fender. No one will bother it, sir.

You can bet on that."

"Fine. I'll come around sometime tomorrow, be on

hand in case you need to open it."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." The sergeant appeared

vastly relieved. Perhaps he had tomorrow off.

"Don't let me interrupt your work." Xris reached his

hand to his pocket, automatically, to pull out a twist.

He caught himself halfway. "My first assignment was a

maintenance troop with the Thirtieth Field Artillery

Regiment. Repair and overhaul. We worked on those

old modified Devastators. God!" Xris shook his head.

"What a bucket of bolts!"

"Yes, sir." The sergeant agreed, more at ease now

that he knew the malfunctioning biohazard crate wasn't

going to be making an appearance anytime soon. "They

were that. But once you got 'em movin', there wasn't

much around that could stop them. Why, I remember

once ..."

The sergeant related a tale. Xris listened, laughed, and

 

 

 

 

twice had to stop his hand from reaching for his pocket.

The sergeant finished his story, offered to show Xris

around the yard.

"Thanks, Sergeant, but it looks like you're closing up

shop. Must be past your dinnertime. Or are you in

charge of the night shift?"

"Night shift!" The sergeant snorted. "Begging your

pardon, sir, what would we run a n!ght shift around here

for? It's not like we ever see any action. Busted axles,

flat tires, the occasional blown engine, clogged air jets--

that's the extent of the work around here. I was staying

late to do a little project of my own. If you'd care to

see, sir?"

Xris had found out all he needed to know, but he

stayed a few moments longer to admire an ancient inter-

nal combustion engine which the sergeant had discov-

ered in a corner of one of the storage sheds, resurrected

it, and was now in the act of restoring. Xris was properly

enthusiastic. He stayed to watch the sergeant lovingly

cover the engine in a drop cloth.

"You heading back to the barracks, sir?" the ser-

geant asked.

"No, not right away," Xris answered. "I thought I'd

take a stroll around the base."

The sergeant was regarding him with wry sympathy.

He leaned close, said in a low voice, "If you want a

smoke, sir, head over by the storage sheds near the

fence. It'll be deserted this time of night." Xris stared at the man.

The sergeant chuckled. "I saw your hand go to your

pocket, sir. I'm a smoker myself. Can't beat a good cigar,

eh, sir? If there's nothing else--"

"No, Sergeant." Xris smiled. "Thanks, You've been a

big help, Uh, which way--"

"That way, sir. Out this door and turn to your right."

Xris nodded. The sergeant pulled shut the door to the

maintenance shed, locked it, then saluted and headed

back toward the barracks.

"By God," Xris said to himself, walking in the direc-

tion indicated, the direction that led him toward the

fence, "that was a stroke of luck. Here I was trying to

 

think of some way to get rid of the guy and he sends

me right where I want to go. Easiest job ever, so far."

The maintenance shed was a large, hutlike building

made of corrugated steel, located only a few meters from

the fence, directly opposite the construction site. Walk~

ing over by the fence, Xris could see the glow of the

security lights illuminating the site of the downed

spaceplane. He was almost directly across from it. Little

more than a kilometer away.

He couldn't have ordered anything more perfect. Pull-

ing the gold case from the compartment in his leg, Xris

took out a twist, lit it, and inhaled deeply, thankfully.

After a few puffs, he tossed the butt end of the twist at

the fence. The twist struck the metal. Blue light flashed;

there was a sizzling sound. Xris grunted. He'd expected

as much. Turning, certain now that the sergeant must be

long gone, Xris headed back for the shed.

Both maintenance shed and yard were lit by overhead

nuke lamps, the only lights around, with the exception

of a few security lights above the fence. Xris was satis-

fied. The yard was the perfect place to stash the stor-

age crate.

Getting off the base was the next problem. Xris

strolled back over to the fence, indulged in another

smoke. He wasn't planning on going through the fence.

It would sizzle his butt as fast as it had sizzled the twist's.

In addition, the fence was undoubtedly loaded with sen-

sor devices, including backup sensors if something hap-

pened to the first. But Xris didn't need to get over the

fence. He could enter the construction site by an easier

route. The robot crate needed to get over the fence. It

had jets, operated by remote control, and wasn't going

to be bothered by a few strands of barbed wire.

The only problem might be some type of magnetic

force field radiating up from the top of the fence. Jamil

hadn't considered that likely, and Xris, making his in-

spection, didn't see any indication. He waited a moment

and was rewarded by the sight of a low-flying bird skim-

ming over the fence without incident.

It was a sign from the gods. If it had been a dove,

Xris might have found religion. As it was, he figured all

 

 

 

 

he had to do was stash the crate in the maintenance

shed, come back at o-dark-thirty, when everyone but the

guards would be in bed, haul out the crate, place it next

to the fence. Once he reached the construction site, Xris

would use the remote to hoist the crate up and over the

fence. He'd leave the crate by the fence, retrieve the

'hot from the crashed plane, haul the 'bot to the fence,

stuff the 'bot in the crate, send the crate with the 'hot

back over the fence. He'd return to base, stash the crate

in the maintenance yard again, collect it when he and

Jamil were ready to leave.

If anyone wondered what he was doing with the crate

over near maintenance, instead of at the lecture hall,

Xris had already established that the case was malfunc-

tioning; he had brought it over to maintenance to repair.

He took a look at the auditorium in which the phony

Colonel Jatanski would be making his speech. Having

located the large, empty lecture room, Xris spent several

minutes checking out the lighting, testing the sound, put-

ting the podium into place, doing all those chores a cap-

tain should be seen to be doing when preparing for a

Speech to be given by his colonel. When Xris was fin-

ished, he walked back outside.

He stood in the darkness, enjoying the warm night air.

His next task: to find out how easy it would be to get

off base.

Xris sauntered over to the front gate. The lights of

the nearby town gleamed in the distance. Must be only

a couple of kilometers, a pleasant walk beneath starlit

night skies. The gate was wide open; two MPs--a private

and a corporal--lounged in the guardhouse, talking com-

panionably. The private's beam rifle was slung across

one shoulder. The corporal had leaned his rifle upright

against the wall of the guardhouse while he poured him-

self a cup of coffee. These two were not expecting

trouble.

Xris called a greeting as he strolled nonchalantly

through the gate.

The private dashed out after him.

"Captain. Excuse me, sir"--the private caught up with

Xris, saluted--"but could I see your orders.*"

 

"No orders, Private," Xris answered in a friendly tone.

"I'm off duty, thought I'd walk into town, check out the

local nightlife."

"Sorry, sir, but the town's off-limits. No one's allowed

to leave base without written orders."

"Damn," Xris said. "Town that rough, huh?"

"No, sir. Actually, the town's very nice. We've never

had any problem with the locals. It's an agreement be-

tween the base and the central Pandoran government.

They don't like off-worlders."

Xris considered. He could get nasty, point to his cap-

tain's bars, shove his jaw in the private's face, but that

would only create animosity, might start raising

questions.

"I see." Xris shrugged. "Guess there's nothing much

left for me to do but go back to bed."

"Sorry, sir. There's the officers' mess, sir," the pri-

vate added.

Xris grimaced. "My colonel's in there, if you take

my meaning."

The private gave Xris a knowing grin. "Yes, sir. Good

night, sir."

"Good night, Private." Xris turned, shoved his hands

in his pockets and strolled back in the direction of his

quarters.

On to Plan B. He needed orders to leave the base.

That should be easy enough to obtain. Pandor was

known galaxy-wide for its stout, which was dark, bitter,

with a head on it that, according to legend, you could

land a spaceplane on. Colonel Jatanski was particularly

fond of Pandoran stout, wanted to replenish his supply.

Xris headed back toward the mess. He'd have Jatanski

give him orders to go into town.

"Pardon me--Captain Kergonan?"

Xris looked up. It was the blond captain, the one he'd

spoken to earlier at the bar. She was standifig on the

sidewalk, had probably just left the officers' mess.

"Captain Strauss," he said, walking over.

"Frances," she said, smiling. "But everyone calls me

Tess."

 

 

"And I'm Xris." He smiled back. "Everyone calls

me Xris."

"I couldn't help noticing you talking to the guards,"

she said, with a glance in the direction of the gatehouse.

"Passing the time of day with the MPs, or did you

need something?"

"What I needed was a beer. They said I can't go off

base without written orders."

"There's the officers' mess," Tess suggested.

"Too many colonels," Xris replied.

"One less colonel now," she said, smiling in under-

standing. "What with Jatanski leaving the base."

Xris thought his augmented hearing was acting up on

him again.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I didn't quite catch

that. Did you say something about Jatanski leaving?"'

"Why, yes? Didn't you know? I'm sorry. Colonel

Strebbins sent a messenger to your quarters to inform

you. I guess he didn't."

"I didn't go back to my quarters. I took a walk to

wake up after that speech, then I checked out the lecture

hall." Xris was carefully casual. "Jatanski's left the base,

you say? Where's he gone? Into town to fight off six

thousand wild-eyed bartenders with a toothpick?"

"No." Tess laughed. "The colonel was called away to

attend a court martial. General Hanson sent his aide, a

major named VanDerGard. He arrived in a special

spaceplane."

An alarm went off on Xris's cybernetic arm, LED

lights flashed, a beep sounded, informing him that his

nervous system was about to go berserk. He wasn't sur-

prised. The shock had literally rocked him backward on

his feet.

"Colonel Jatanski? My Colonel Jatanski?" Xris was

convinced she must be mistaken. "Tall, good-looking

black human ..."

"I know Colonel Jatanski," Tess assured him. "He is

very good-looking, isn't he? But a bit arrogant for my

tastes." She was regarding Xris with concern. "Shouldn't

you do something about that?" She pointed at his arm.

The alarm was still beeping.

 

Xris muttered a curse, rolled up his sleeve. Distracted

as he was over the news about Jamil, part of him was

thinking it was a damn shame that this attractive woman

would now find out he was a cyborg. He braced himself

for the look of revulsion, the struggle to remain polite,

the sudden recollection that she had to wash her hair

tonight.

He was wearing his flesh foam and pastiskin hand.

Made from molds of his own good right hand, the fake

hand looked, reacted, even felt just like a real hand. It

was warm to the touch; had hair, veins, cuticles, and

fingernails. For a bit extra, you could add on warts. A

fleshfoam, plastiskin, and duramuscle arm went along

with the hand. Most cyborgs always wore such

"pretty" limbs.

Not Xris. He usually made no secret of his cybernetics,

flaunted the steel and wire arm and compartmented

metal leg for all the galaxy to see, dared anyone to pity

him. Dr. Quong had informed Xris that he did this in

order to cover his own insecurity and deep-seated anger

at the fate which had turned him in to half man, half

machine. He used the blatant display of his cybernetic

limbs to repel people at the outset, rather than have to

deal with them and their reactions.

Sure. Fine. Xris admitted this to himself, but the

knowledge didn't make it easier to see pity in a wom-

an's eyes.

He opened the compartment, made the adjustment

that would inject the needed chemical into his blood-

stream to correct the imbalance, which was affecting his

electronics system. This done, he started to pull his

sleeve down. Tess's hand on his mechanical arm halted

him. Her touch startled him, almost into forgetting

about Jamil.

No revulsion or pity in her eyes. They were bright

with interest.

"How fascinating! What did you do there? Correct a

chemical imbalance? I've read about limbs with the abil-

ity to do this, but I've never seen one this sophisticated."

"Of course not," he retorted. "Who goes around feel-

ing a guy's phony arm?"

 

 

 

 

Tess flushed, snatched back her hand. "I'm sorry, Xris.

I wasn't thinking. Not very tactful of me, was it?" She

sighed, smile ruefully. "'Aim and Fire.' That's my nick-

name on base and it's not for my weapons proficiency.

I'm always shooting off my mouth before I think. It's

just that the study of cybernetics was my minor in col-

lege. I'm interested in the latest developments in the

field. I'm sorry if I offended you--"

"No, no, not at all," Xris assured her. Now it was his

turn to be embarrassed. "It's my fault. I'm oversensitive.

I have to admit that, well, it's refreshing to find someone

who takes such a practical view of my . . . uh . . .

alteration."

He finished rolling down his sleeve. "This would be

the ideal time for me to say 'I'd love to show you the

rest of my body parts' but I really should find out what

happened to Jatanski. He left the base, you say? To

attend a court-martial proceeding?"

"Yes, I was standing at the bar when the major came

for him. Everyone heard. Some lieutenant colonel under

Jatanski's command got caught stealing government

property. You probably know him. Sorry, but I can't

remember the name. He and the colonel must have been

pretty close, because the news really caught Jatanski off

guard. He looked about as shaken as you did there, for

a moment."

"I'11 bet he did," Xris muttered to himself. Then he

said, "He left the base?"

"About twenty minutes ago. You're on your own to-

night, Captain."

"On my own," Xris repeated. He was trying to shift

his brain out of neutral, where it appeared to have got-

ten stuck. Jamil ... Jatanski ... court-martial ... Gen-

eral Hanson ... Jamil gone. A major ... escorted him

off the base ... special plane ...