he doesn't need to prove his talents to anyone, particu-

larly a woman with little or no fashion sense. That last

bit," Raoul added unnecessarily, "was mine."

"Uh-huh." Tess smiled wryly. "Go on with your story,

then, Adonian. Your friend, the telepath"--she lifted an

eyebrow--"was supposed to read Sakuta's mind. And

he failed."

"It was not his faultW Raoul rushed to the defense,

put his arm protectively around the Little One. "You

cannot blame him! Sakuta used a telepathic scrambler

on him."

"Oh, a telepathic scrambler." Tess rolled her eyes.

"There are such devices," Dr. Quong stated. "They

use a high-frequency resonator that produces alpha

waves. The mind targeted wanders but does not notice

anything wrong. As it detects an anomaly or error, an-

other random alpha wave interrupts it, and so on."

Tess shook her head, unconvinced.

The Little One, when he thought the woman wasn't

looking, jerked his head toward Xris, sniggered, reached

out a small hand, and made a swipe at Raoul's upper

arm. Raoul's lashes fluttered: a side of his lipstick-

smudged mouth twitched. He nudged the Little One in

the ribs with an elbow.

Xris figured he could guess what that charade was all

about. He'd have a talk with those two later.

"Let's say that Sakuta did use a telepathic scrambler."

Xris looked at Tess, who shrugged. "If that's true, this

is finally beginning to come into focus. This whole job

 

is a setup. Sakuta hires us to steal this 'bot, tells us it's

worthless except to a museum. And we fall for it." Xris

reached for his pocket, took out a twist. He didn't give

a damn who saw him anymore. He put the twist in his

mouth, bit down on it, hard. "He played us for suckers."

Xris was silent, chewing. Then he demanded, "All

right. Who the hell is Professor Sakuta?"

"His real name is Nick Harsch," Tess answered.

"According to Tess, Harsch's a Corasian agent, Xris,"

Jamil finished.

"Son of a bitch," Xris said, soft, bitter.

"l didn't know who he was," Raoul stated. "But I

reasoned that anyone who would use a telepathic scram-

bler was doing so only because he desired to hide his

thoughts. And if one is hiding one's thoughts, one must

be thinking bad things. Bad thoughts in such a lovely

head."

"Son of a bitch," Xris said again. "And I fell for it.

One of the oldest con jobs in history. All so damn obvi-

ous! The museum offices are being renovated, so every-

one takes the week off. Sakuta and his people show up

to do the work. They slap paint on the walls, no one

asks questions. One afternoon, Sakuta cleans the paint

off his hands, dresses up in a suit and tie, and meets

with us for an hour or so, gets rid of us, goes back to

painting. The job's done. Everyone goes home. Son of

a bitch."

"You're saying that's what happened?" Tess

sounded skeptical.

"Look, Captain, you can contact the Lord Admiralty,"

Jamil offered irritably. "They'll tell you we're acting on

Dixter's orders."

"I've been in contact with the Lord Admiral," Tess

returned. "You and Xris ... yes, you have your orders."

She waved her hand. "It's the rest of the floor show I

wasn't expecting. But, just to prove we're all on the same

side, tell me this. Where is the robot?"

"In a crate in the maintenance shed," Xris said.

"For repair."

Tess eyed him, smiled. "I think you're telling the

truth."

 

 

 

 

"I don't much give a damn what you think, sister,"

Xris returned. "Go check it out, if you don't believe

me."

Tess regarded him intently. Her expression softened.

She lowered the gun, tucked it into the holster on her

belt. "Don't beat yourself up, Xris. Nick Harsch is slick.

You're not the first person he's fooled. If it's any com-

fort, you've managed to come closer to him than any of

our people."

Xris snorted. "Just tell me what the devil's going on.

What does a Corasian agent want with an antique

robot?"

Tess glanced around.

They stood in the wings to the left of the stage. Any-

one approaching would have to climb the stairs leading

up to the stage from the side. The back of the stage was

accessible only by a door leading into the wings.

"This is as good a place to talk as any." Tess touched

a button, lowered the stage curtains. "We're not likely

to be interrupted here. You'll find more chairs in the

back. I think they're props."

Raoul cast himself on a love seat, hid his lipstick-

smeared face in his arms. The Little One stood by his

friend, patted his shoulder in a conciliatory manner. The

rest of the team took their seats in the semidarkness.

Xris drew out another twist. "This robot must be

pretty damn important."

Tess drew in a deep breath, let it out with her words.

"It is. There's a possibility that it's a Lane-laying robot.

And if it is, it will be the first one we've ever found with

all its programming and memory intact."

Harry's eyes widened. He gave a low whistle. "I'll be

swizzled," he said, awed.

Quong evinced interest by sitting up straighter in his

chair. "It is in working condition?"

"We think so," Tess replied cautiously. "We can't be

certain until we run tests on it--"

"It works," Xris stated. "At least it lights up and talks.

And it's mobile. And it may or may not lay lanes. What

does that mean? It works in a bowling alley? I still don't

get it."

 

"Space Lanes, Xris," Harry said, eager, excited. "We

studied about these robots in school. I did a report on

them in sixth grade. I got an A. Hey, I think I've still

got the report back home. I could ask my mom to send

it--"

"How is your mother?" inquired Quong.

"Oh, she's fine. She sends her best."

"A very gracious lady," Raoul murmured, his voice

muffled in his arms.

"Yes, our best to Mrs. Luck," Xris said through

clenched teeth. "Now, if we could return to business?

Fine. Now that you mention it, I do remember hearing

in physics class something about Lane-laying robots.

They built the hyperspace Lanes, or some such thing."

"Yes, indeed," said Tess. "And if this robot is, in fact,

one of those very same robots, and is in working condi-

tion, then this discovery is of monumental importance.

And it could be very dangerous if it fell into the

wrong hands."

"Why? I admit it would be interesting from a scientific

standpoint. A real museum piece, but--"

"It's like this, Xris," Tess explained. "Back in the

early days of space travel, about the time of the Black

Earth wars and the ecological disaster which followed,

these robots---or rather, the scientist who created

them--"

"Professor Colin Lasairion," Harry interjected, proud

of his knowledge. "He discovered how to warp space in

order to form the hyperspace Lanes that let us move

through space but not time. That was always the main

problem with faster-than-light travel. Professor Lasairion

was of Irish descent and he--"

"Save it for the term paper," Xris snapped. "Go on,

Captain Strauss. The short form."

"The short form is Tess," she said.

"I meant about the robot."

"Oh, that. Well, Pilot Luck is right," Tess continued,

"Professor Lasairion built over one hundred of these

Lane-laying robots, sent them out in unmanned

spaceplanes to 'build' the Lanes. For forty years, the

robots traveled throughout the galaxy, using the Lanes

 

 

 

 

they'd built in the beginning to reach other Lanes, ex-

panding ever outward. The professor kept an enormous

and complex map of all the Lanes, ensuring that no Lane

would intersect with another or travel too close to an-

other because, of course, any ship moving that fast col-

liding with another ship ..."

She shrugged. "They'd both be vaporized. The profes-

sor also developed the scanning devices that ascertain

whether or not a Lane is clear before a ship makes the

Jump into it. Professor Lasairion made it possible for

thousands to flee a dying Earth, find new lives on new

worlds in outer space."

"Throw the man a fish," Xris stated. "He was a genius

and now we're left with an old robot. I still don't see

what makes this 'bot valuable--outside of the science

fair at Harry's grade school."

"Lasairion was a genius. He was ahead of his time,"

Tess said gravely. "So far ahead, in fact, that no one

since has ever been able to duplicate his work."

"I can't believe you don't know about this, Xris!"

Harry was shocked. "Didn't you ever wonder why no

one's ever built any new space Lanes?"

"Yeah," Xris said, taking out another twist. "I lay

awake nights worrying about it."

"That is because you are not a pilot, my friend," Dr.

Quong said. "Or a merchant in one of the newly emerg-

ing planets that are light-years away from the Lanes. If

you were, you would know that the need for more Lanes

is critical. This robot could provide us with the basics

scientists could use in order to duplicate the professor's

work. I congratulate the NI, Captain," he added, making

Tess a small bow. "This was excellent detective work."

"We've been searching for such a robot for years,"

she said. "Every time an ancient crash site is uncovered,

we always hope that this will be the site to contain one

of the Lane-lying robots--one that either crashed or was

shot down--"

"Shot down?" Xris halted her story. "You said the

planes were unmanned. Someone went around shooting

down Lane-laying robots? What for? Some crazed

'bot-hater?"

 

"The professor had enemies. A lot of enemies. Reli-

gious fanatics, who believed that man was not meant to

leave Earth, travel among the stars. Despots and dicta-

tors, criminals and corporations, who wanted the profes-

sor to work for them, give them control over the Lanes.

One or more of these groups tried at various times to

buy him. They offered him fabulous amounts of money.

He accepted only public funding. He allowed no one

government or person or corporation to control the

Lanes. The Lanes were free for anyone to enter; they

were dedicated to the service of mankind and, later, to

other races living in the galaxy.

"When it was clear that the professor couldn't be

bought, someone tried to kilt him.

"It was only by a stroke of luck that the professor

escaped his assassin. He fled Earth, sought refuge on an

unknown planet. His enemies couldn't find him, but they

could find the robots. They tried to capture the robots,

in order to study them, emulate them. The robots were

programmed to destroy themselves if capture appeared

imminent. Many of them did so, which is why they are

so rare and valuable.

~'When the professor died--of natural causes, I'm

happy to say--his family, acting on his orders, retrieved

those robots that were left and destroyed them. The fam-

ily trashed all his notes and files, making it impossible

for anyone to duplicate his research."

"What about that rumor that one of his children stole

some of the equipment and sold it?" Quong asked.

"That was never verified," Tess answered. "I tend to

doubt it. The equipment would have been useless to any-

one who didn't have the background information on how

to operate it. Why waste your money?" Quong nodded in understanding.

"I would have," Harry said in a low voice. "Just to

have something that was once touched by Professor

Lasairion."

Tess smiled. "Yes, me, too. You can imagine our ex-

citement when this ancient spaceplane actually proved

to be one of those used by the professor in his work. A

Pandoran NI operative was able to verify the fact that

 

 

 

 

a robot was inside the wreckage and that the robot was

intact and, apparently, in working condition."

Dr. Quong's expression altered. No much. Probably

no one else noticed. But Xris had been watching Quong

closely, to see his reaction to Tess's words. Something

was eating the Doc now, to judge by the narrowing eyes,

the deepening frown line between the brows. Xris made

a mental note to talk to Quong somewhere in private.

"We immediately went to work, through diplomatic

channels, to recover the robot/' Tess was continuing.

"The Pandoran government was a pain. We thought that

they were just being reactionary. They're always difficult

to deal with. They have an overinflated view of their

own importance. They're convinced that there is some

giant conspiracy at work in the galaxy. That the king

and his ministers do nothing all day long but plot to

seize Pandot. If it wasn't for its strategic location near

the Void and the Cotasians--"

Xris interrupted, "Save it for your thesis, Captain."

Tess glanced at him, looked away. "Sorry. I get a bit

carried away," she said coolly. "Suffice it to say the Pan-

doran government used every legal manuever in the

book to keep us from taking the robot."

"Maybe they weren't being difficult just to be diffi-

cult," Xris suggested. "Maybe they were being paid to

be difficult."

"By Nick Harsch, you mean. Yes." Tess nodded

gravely. "Yes, that's what we now believe. We thought

we kept the lid on--"

"He did his homework," Tcyho said. "Like friend

Harry here."

"He did his homework, all right. Sakuta--I mean

Harsch--told me he had an informant on Pandor," Xris

said. "He provided me with detailed information on the

'bot. Either he's got someone on his payroll or he came

to take a look at it himself."

"However he found out about it, he found out. And

we found out that he found out." Tess spread her hands.

"Don't you see? This was our chance. We've been trying

for a long time to catch Nick Harsch. We know he has

 

sold information, weapons, and technology to the

Corasians.

"The Corasians have used his information to launch

attacks on the outer systems. Harsch has been responsi-

ble for the deaths of hundreds of thousands. I think you

all know how horribly those people died, too," Tess

added somberly.

"I saw Chico die," Harry said. "They ate him. Started

from the feet up. He--"

Xris interrupted, not liking to think about Chico. Xris

had been the one forced to put his friend out of his

misery. "So you figured that when Harsch showed up

to steal the 'bot, you'd nab him. That's why NI posted

you here."

"A little more complicated than that, but something

like that, yes. To be honest, I figured one of you"--

Tess's gaze went from Jamil to Xris--"for Harsch."

"You don't know what he looks like?"

Tess shook her head. "We know very little about him

at all. He's good, really good. That's why we decided to

use the robot as bait. We figured that this was so impor-

tant, he'd come himself. We were wrong. Your photos

were picked up on security cams when you landed, sent

to the Admiralty. They spotted you immediately. I be-

lieve the Lord Admiral's response was, 'Oh, shit! Aren't

we in enough trouble?'"

"Nice to know we're appreciated," Xris growled.

"At that point," Tess continued, "it was either have

you both arrested and locked up or use you to get to

Harsch."

"You pick up Jamil and haul him off on some phony

court-martial scam--"

"--to meet with Dixter," Jamil said. "That's where

I've been for the last twelve hours."

Xris cast his friend an interrogative glance.

Jamil nodded. "Yeah, she's telling it straight. At least,

she's telling it the same as the Lord Admiral's adjutant

told me. We deliver the robot as planned--with one ex-

ception. This." Jamil reached into the metal briefcase,

brought forth a small object that looked rather like an

ordinary writing pen, except that it had magnetic grap~

 

 

 

 

pies at both ends. He held it up. "Tracking device. We

insert this in the robot's innards. The device leads the

NI to Harsch."

"Our orders are--"

"Deliver the robot and collect our payment. That's it.

The tracking device"--Jamil slid it back into the case--

"does the rest."

Xris snorted. "Who's the bright person thought this

one up? What happens if Harsch decides to run a scan

on the 'bot? He finds out it's wired. The man is under-

standably upset and, to even things out, he blows our

heads off! Has N1 considered this little possibility? Or

don't they give a damn?"

Tess was attempting to be patient. "It would take a

very sophisticated scanner to detect the tracking device.

And I doubt if he's going to have such fancy equipment

with him. Where are you supposed to rendezvous?"

Xris muttered something.

Tess leaned forward. "What was that?"

"Hell's Outpost on the frontier. Near the Void."

"Near the Corasians," Tess said, exasperated. "And

didn't you think this was a strange place for a rendez-

vous with a professor?"

"I was the one who suggested it," Xris snapped. "How

the hell was I supposed to know any different?" He

shook his head. "I'm still not keen on this. What hap-

pens if we refuse?"

"Go to jail," Jamil said. He flicked a glance at Tess,

looked back at Xris. "Go directly to jail. After we stand

trial, of course. For the abduction of Major Darlene

Mohini."

Raoul lifted his head, stared. The Little One shivered

all over. Harry's forehead creased in puzzlement.

"But Darlene isn't--"

"Ahem!" Xris coughed loudly, interrupted.

"Uh? Oh." Harry blinked. "I get it." And he

scratched his head.

"Quite the nice little setup," Xris said quietly. "What

did you tell the Admiralty?"

"To go play with themselves." Jamil was blunt. "No

offense, ma'am," he added, his brow dark, "but 1 don't

 

like threats. I told them we'd take the job, but we do it

for our own reasons, on our own terms. Not because

we're being blackmailed."

"Good man." Xris smiled, took out a twist. He

glanced at Tess. "What happens if that fancy gadget of

yours doesn't work? Suppose you lose track'of the 'bot

or Harsch or both?"

"Oh, did I forget to mention?" Jamil was grim. "The

tracking device is also a remote-controlled bomb." He

patted the briefcase. "Touch a button in here and

boom."

"We don't want to destroy the robot, of course," Tess

said. "We'll do everything possible to keep it intact."

"And us along with it, I hope," Xris said dryly.

Tess nodded absently. "But we're prepared to destroy

it, rather than allow the robot to fall into enemy hands."

In Xris's view, a lot of things weren't adding up. He

tried an experimental question, waited to see the

reaction.

"Seems to me that the Navy's making a hell of a sacri-

fice just to take out one Corasian agent. If this robot's

all you say it is."

Xris wasn't watching Tess. He had his eyes on Quong.

The Doc lifted his hand and rubbed the side of his

nose.

I was right, Xris thought. Something smells. And it

isn't Raoul's perfume.

Quong suddenly began to cough. He coughed until he

was red in the face. Harry reached around, gave him a

sound slap on the back.

The doctor glared at him. "What are you trying to

do?" he demanded, in between hacks. "Dislocate my

spine?" Choking, he turned to Tess. "Excuse me,

ma'am." He jumped to his feet, headed for a drinking

fountain at the far end of the theater.

"Why don't you build a fake robot?" Harry asked.

"Pull the old switcheroo."

"We considered trying to replicate the robot," Tess

answered, "but iffs just not possible. Some of the materi-

Ms-metal alloys, for example--used in that 'bot can't

be re-created today. Harsch is intelligent. One look

 

 

 

 

would tell him he'd been double-crossed. As for the

robot, NI intends to retrieve all the information stored

inside the 'bot first, before you take it to Harsch. The

information is what's most important. Not the robot it-

self. I have with me all the equipment necessary to

download ..."

She continued talking, but Xris had stopped lis-

tening-to her, at least. Quong's voice was in Xris's ear,

coming over the commlink that was part of the cyborg's

inner workings.

"She is not telling us the truth, my friend. The robot

would be worthless to the Corasians and my guess is that

she knows it. Even if the 'bot is in working condition, it

would not be able to perform its function of laying space

Lanes. Professor Lasairion equipped all his 'bots with

fail-safe devices. Before the robot could go ahead and

lay a space Lane, the professor sent the robot a confir-

mation signal. If it did not receive confirmation, it would

not lay the Lane."

"Uh-huh," Xris said aloud, as if talking to Tess.

"Thanks. That clears a lot up."

He could hear the sound of Quong noisily gulping

water. The doctor, his coughing fit eased, returned to

the stage.

So, reasoned Xris. This whole scheme is a bait to trap

Harsch. The Navy makes a big commotion over this 'bot,

stirs up the political hornets, attracts Harsch's attention.

He figures there's something to this, sends in his agent,

who confirms that this robot must be highly valuable

because the Navy is making such a fuss over it--top-

level security, all that. When, in fact, the blasted 'bot

couldn't lay a Lane if its life depended on it.

"As for killing Harsch," Tess was saying, "don't waste

your pity on him. He intends to sell a Lane-laying robot

to the Corasians. Can you imagine what that would

mean? It has always been difficult for the Corasians to

mass their forces due to the lack of space Lanes within

their own galaxy. They would now have the capability

to lay Lanes wherever they wanted. They could send

immense armadas to attack us.

"Once here, the Corasians could continue to build

 

their own Lanes, travel unimpeded to any portion of the

galaxy. They could also disrupt our Lanes, making it

difficult, if not impossible, for the Navy to come to the

defense of planets under attack. The death and devasta-

tion would be incalculable."

Tess was pale and serious and earnest. And it was all

a lie. You're good, sister, Xris told her silently. You're

real good. I wonder what else you're not telling us.

"1 know there are rotten people in this galaxy," Harry

Luck was saying, "but I can't imagine how anyone could

be twisted enough to work for the Corasians."

"Money has a lot to do with it," Tess said. "But it's

more than that with Harsch. Or so we think. He could

make a fortune--hell, he cold make a hundred for-

tunes--by selling the robot to any number of people in

our own galaxy. Our people believe that he has some

sort of weird fascination with the Corasians."

"Probably sexual," Raoul commented.

"Sex?" Harry guffawed. "The Cotasians are big blobs

of molten lava--"

"Not technically." Quong, having returned from the

drinking fountain, interrupted. "The Corasians are actu-

ally a protoplasmic mass that is about ninety percent

pure energy with just enough fleshy matter to ensure

that they can interact with the material world."

"So they're not lava," Harry carried on, undeterred.

"They're fiery, flesh-eating blobs of goo that haul them-

selves around in plastic cases. I don't see anything so

very sexy about all that."

"You have no imagination," Raoul stated loftily. His

eyes grew dreamy, unfocused. "Think of being con-

sumed by flames, of tongues of fire licking your loins...

of the sweet, terrible pain ..."

"That's sick!" Harry protested, disgusted.

Raoul gave a delicate shrug. "As I said, you have no

imagination."

Jamil rubbed his eyes, flexed his shoulders. "Could we

get on with this? All I want to do is go to bed and sleep

for about twenty-four hours." Yawning, he shook his

head to clear it, then hunched forward on his chair. "lt

 

 

 

 

seems to me that this is all settled. We deliver the robot

to Harsch. We get paid. That's that."

"Speaking of payment, since the government now

knows about this job, we'll have to declare it as income,"

Tycho said in gloomy tones.

Xris eyed Tess. "I don't understand, Captain. Why

don't your own people deal with this? If this robot's so

damn dangerous and so damn valuable, why didn't you

just snatch it?"

Tess made no answer. She merely smiled.

"Ah," Xris said in sudden understanding. "I inter-

rupted something, didn't I? Of course. You had that raid

on the barroom planned in advance. That was the diver-

sion you were planning to use to sneak off base! Until

I wandered onto the set. Worked out great for you,

didn't it? You let me go pick up the robot. If I get

caught, I take the fall. You bat your innocent eyes, give

a little horrified scream--"

"Cut the self-pity," Tess snapped. "You were op-

erating on the edge, and you knew it. You were happy

enough to use me to get off base. You took off like

you had a missile up your ass when that diversion

came down. You thought you were so smart! Thought

you were in control of the whole situation! If you could

have seen your face when you heard Jamil had left the

base ..."

Xris took out a twist, but he didn't put it in his mouth.

He held it in his hand, stared at it, tapped it against the

gold case. "Yeah, I guess I must've looked pretty funny

at that."

In the silence, Xris could hear the whir of the machin-

ery that kept him alive. Everyone in the place could hear

it. Great acoustics, this theater.

Tess's hand touched his shoulder. His good shoulder.

"Look, we both know that this is a hell of a way to earn

a living. But I think we'd both have to admit we enjoy

it." Her hand slid gently around to his back. "And if it's

any comfort to your poor bruised male ego, those kisses

were on my own time. They weren't government-issue."

Xris tried hard to stay angry, but he couldn't. What

she said was absolutely true. She had used him. He had

 

used her. She had lied to him. He had lied to her. And

he'd known all along those kisses hadn't been bought

and paid for. He lifted his head, looked up at her, and

smiled.

"So we've managed to prove that each of us is a

sneaky, conniving liar and a cheat. Sounds like the basis

of a great relationship to me. Where do we go from

here?"

"To bed," Jamil muttered, yawning again. "I meant

to sleep," he added.

"No imagination," said Raoul, sighing. Once again he

regarded himself sadly in his mirror. "I, for one, am

going to have to find someplace to repair the damage."

"Me, too," said Harry. "My plane's a mess. I've got

a broken front gear and number two engine is out.

Something flew off the tarmac, ripped up the turbines.

Don't the people here know that FOD can ruin an

engine?"

Harry was incapable of being witty. Xris could only

assume he was serious--which was even more

frightening.

"Well, Captain, what are our orders?" Xris turned

to Tess.

"Bring the robot to me. I have the equipment needed

to download the data. When that's finished, you fly off."

Xris chewed on the twist. "We're taking a hot robot

wired with explosives to a guy who turns people into

Corasian lunch meat." He glanced around at the team.

"Everyone got their life insurance paid up?"

"Harsch won't figure it out," Tess said firmly. "He

couldn't possibly. We've kept the lid on this, tight. No

one else knows about this robot. No one." Xris grunted. "Whatever you say."

He had another problem to solve, and that was the

disappearance of Darlene Rowan. He hoped twenty-four

hours would give him time to establish contact with her,

make sure she was all right. He turned to Raoul. "Mind

if I come along'? Watch you put on your lipstick?"

Raoul was pleased, flattered. "If you truly think you

would enjoy it, Xris Cyborg. So few people realize that

it is an art form--"

 

 

 

 

The Little One nudged his friend. Raoul's eyelashes

fluttered. "Oh. Yes, well." He gazed at Xris from be-

neath lowered lashes. "If you would accompany me to

the little boys' room ..."

Tess suddenly put her hand to her ear. She listened a

moment, said "Excuse me, gentlemen," and walked to

the back part of the stage.

"Implanted commlink," said Harry knowingly.

"Gee, you're a scientific wonder today," Xris re-

marked caustically.

He was watching Tess. He didn't like the way her

shoulders slumped, the way she slowly lowered her hand

from the commlink implanted beneath her skin behind

her ear, the way she stood a moment, as if trying to sort

out what to do next.

"Something's gone wrong," said Jamil in an

undertone.

"Surprise, surprise. Look, next time you hear me say

'This is the easiest job on record,' just shoot me, will

you?" Xris returned. "Point-blank. Through the heart.

Get it over with."

Tess began to walk. She was headed off the stage,

moving rapidly.

The entire team was on their feet.

Xris was the first to catch up with her. He grabbed

her elbow, "What gives, Captain? Where are you off to

in such a hurry? We're on the same side, remember?"

Tess shook him off, glared up at him. She was clearly

furious. "Mag Force 7. And there's only six of you. What

a chump I am. Let go of me."

Xris didn't. "What are you talking about?"

"Your number seven just showed up."

Xris silenced the others--particularly Raoul--with a

flashing glance.

"And," Tess continued, "he's raising one hell of a

row. He's blabbing his head off about the robot!"

 

CHSPIER

23

 

And trust me not at all or all in all.

 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Idylls of the King,

"Merlin and Vivien"

 

~l]...]ere goes my nap." Jamil groaned.

I I Tess fixed them all with a grim stare. Her hand

rested on her holster. "You want to tell me what you're

up to?"

"I don't know who this guy is. He's not one of ours.

Maybe," Xris said, "he's one of yours. Maybe this is

something you've cooked up for us?"

Tess flushed in anger. She started to retort, caught

herself, swallowed her words. After a moment, she was

calm again. "I suppose this is inevitable. We neither of

us can trust the other."

She looked narrowly at Xris, at the rest of the team.

"You're saying that this man isn't one of your team?"

"Yes, that's what Fm saying. Is he one of yours?"

"No, of course not! But then who? . . . How? . . ."

Tess sighed, put her hand to her forehead. "I don't be-

lieve this."

"Maybe it's Harsch?" Jamil suggested. "Or one of his

agents? Maybe he got suspicious, decided to check things

out himself."

"That was the first thing I considered," Tess said, "but

NI doesn't think so. He calls himself Jeffrey Grant. He

flew to Pandor in a rent-a-plane. He requested clearance

to land. When that was refused, he said he had to see

 

 

 

 

someone about the 'old robot.' The Admiralty's been

monitoring all air traffic on this planet. They stepped in

at that point, ordered that Grant be allowed to land.

He was immediately taken into custody. He hasn't been

permitted to leave his plane. He's being held incommu-

nicado at the airfield."

"Harsch wouldn't be likely to broadcast the fact that

he knows something about the robot," Jamil pointed

out.

Tess was silent, thinking. She glanced at Xris. "You've

seen Harsch. Could you say for certain whether or not

this might be him?"

"I might not be able to." Xris said. "I saw Sakuta.

remember? He may or may not have been Harsch. But

the Little One could. He could also tell if this guy is

Harsch or is working for Harsch."

"And I'm supposed to rely on what he says? Oh, very

well. You and the hat come with me."

"Sure," Xris answered. He rubbed the right side of

his nose. "But what about the robot? I don't think any-

one will bother it, not with all those biohazard warnings

decorating the crate's exterior. But you never know--"

"Tycho and I could go collect the robot," Quong of-

fered, picking up on the cue. "Our friend is also decor-

ated with biohazard warnings--so to speak." He

indicated Tycho's biochemical warfare patches.

"And it would be consistent with my story that I sus-

pected something was wrong with the crate," Xris said.

Tess was regarding him with renewed suspicion. "You

know, I might almost think you had this planned."

"Yeah, I'm a genius," Xris returned, shrugging. "I'm

such a genius I get taken in by a Corasian agent posing

as a museum curator and an NI agent posing as a

human."

Tess contemplated him a moment longer, then smiled

a half smile. "The number-one rule for someone in my

business is don't get personally involved--"

"--because you may have to shoot the involvee," Xris

finished. "Yeah, I know. You've got a job to do. And

so do we. Why not let us do it? Quong and Tycho collect

the robot. You can send an armed escort with them if

 

you want. Harry, you go make certain the Claymore's

in shape to fly us out-- What's the matter, Harry?" Xris

interrupted himself. "You do remember where you left

the bomber, don't you?"

"Uh? Oh, yeah, sure, Xris. I remember where I left

it. It's just how I left it--sort of sudden-like. You see, I

really wasn't supposed to have left it at all, only I said

I had to go to the can and-- For God's sake, Xris,"

Harry expostulated. "I heard you were in trouble!"

Xris thrust a twist into his mouth. "Still think I

planned this?" he asked Tess in an undertone. Aloud he

said, "Jamil, go with Harry. See if you can keep him out

of the brig. Doc, you and Tycho meet us at the airfield

with the 'bot. I'll take the Little One With me."

Xris turned to the small raincoated figure. "Would

you know this time if Harsch was using a telepathic

scrambler?"

The Little One nodded emphatically, smashed his two

small fists together.

"And if the Little One comes along with you, Xris

Cyborg, I come along in addition," Raoul announced.

"After I repair my makeup, of course." Tess glanced sidelong at Xris.

"I'm afraid he's right. He has to come," he said, grin-

ning. "They're a team. We all are." "God help us," Tess muttered.

She left to arrange for an armed escort for Tycho and

Quong and the robot. ("It's not that I don't trust you.

Let's just. say that I don't want anything else to go

wrong.")

Jamil and Harry left to try to retrieve Harry's

spaceplane. ("1 know where I left it. It's sitting right on

the tarmac. Jeez! I wish you guys would forget about

that other time .... ")

Once Tess was gone, Raoul drew out a pocket mirror,

began redoing his lipstick. Xris bent down, said quietly,

"What about Darlene?"

Raoul answered in the same soft tone, pausing at in-

tervals to examine the tracings of the lavender-colored

pencil around his lips. "It was close, Xris Cyborg. Very

 

 

 

 

close. The Little One discovered the plot and warned

me in time."

Xris's stomach clenched. "The Hung?"

Raoul looked not at Xris but at Xris's reflection in

the mirror. "Yes, my friend. That is what the Little One

says. They were Adonian assassins, hired by the Hung.

Third-rate, mind you." Raoul sniffed and concentrated

on his work. "No delicacy. No finesse. And they used a

poison to which there was an antidote. Still, I suppose

that a mob can't be all that selective--"

"She's all right," Xris repeated urgently.

"She's fine. She left on a pleasure cruiser to Moana.

She chose that planet because it is near Pandot. ! have

... somewhere"--he glanced at his handbag--"exactly

where and when we are supposed to meet her. She sent

it in code. She said you would know how to decode it,"

"How the devil did they track her?" Xris demanded

angrily. He grabbed hold of Raoul's arm roughly. "Stop

painting your face and listen to me. Damn it! You and

the Little One were supposed to be on the watch--"

"We were, Xris Cyborg," Raoul interrupted. He re-

garded Xris with mild reproach and put his arm around

the Little One, who shrank into a heap of wrinkled rain-

coat at Xris's furious tone. "No one followed her. We

kept close watch. We would have known. After all, we

are fond of Darlene, too."

The Little One darted forward, grabbed hold of Xris's

pants leg, tugged on it fiercely, and pointed a jabbing

finger at Raoul. The Little One put his finger to his

mouth, pointed at Raoul again, repeated this gesture

twice. Raoul had returned to his interrupted beauty re-

gime, was again complacently regarding himself in the

mirror.

Xris suddenly understood the pantomime. "You in-

gested the poison."

Raoul gave a delicate shrug. "My body is able to

adapt. Hers might not have been." He searched through

his purse, found the note with the coded message. It was

scribbled on the back of a shopping list.

"I'm sorry." Xris took the list, tucked it carefully in

his pocket. "It's not your fault. I brought this on her.

 

This is my fault. If I'd left her alone, she would have

had the whole goddamn Royal Navy protecting her!"

"Like they protected her from you?" Raoul asked,

with a slight, sweet smile. Xris stared at him.

"You found her," Raoul continued. "It would have

only been a matter of time before the Hung accom-

plished the same task. She would have died at their

hands. And she would have died alone." "She's alone now," Xris muttered.

"No, Xris Cyborg. For you are in her thoughts. And

she is in yours."

"A lot of help that's going to be."

"There is nothing you can do, my friend. The matter

is out of your hands, beyond your ability to control. And

that, of course, is why you find it frustrating. It is very

presumptuous, not to mention egotistical, for you to take

responsibility for the odd quirks and twists of fate. Only

the Creator--should He, She, or It exist--may lay claim

to that, for which blessing we should all be'extremely

thankful."

"You've been hanging around Quong too much," Xris

snapped. He was silent a moment, brooding, then said

abruptly, "Anyhow, thanks for what you did for her.

And, again, I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"No thanks are needed, Xris Cyborg," Raoul re-

turned. He shut the compact, placed it back in his purse,

along with his makeup kit. ,'Although the apology is

accepted. As you said, Darlene is one of the team. One

for all and damn the torpedoes, as our friend Tycho

has been known to say. And here comes that wretched

woman!" He glanced at Xris from beneath lavender eye-

lids. "I can't think what you see in her!"

Xris patted reassuringly the pocket where the coded

message resided. The first moment alone on Harry's

spaceplane, he would try to get through to Darlene

Tess motioned them to join her. She was brisk, cool,

a demeanor put on--Xris guessed--to conceal her ner-

vousness and anxiety. This job had every prospect of

blowing up in her face now. He should have felt a little

vindictive satisfaction, but he was gloomily aware that--

 

 

 

 

if the bomb went off--he was standing right beside her.

Tess managed a smile for Raoulú

"You look lovely," she said sincerely.

"No thanks to you!" Raoul sniffed, tossed his hair,

and--well-groomed head held high--flounced past her.

 

Jeffrey Grant sat in his spaceplane, eating a chocolate

bar and watching the two armed MPs standing guard

outside the hatch. He wasn't surprised at the reception

he'd received. He was actually pleased. It restored his

faith in his government. He was glad to think that they

were on top of this matter, that they were treating this

ú with the respect it was due. He'd been worried that no

one here would understand the danger, that he would

have to be firm and persuasive.

If there were two things he was not good at, it was

being firm and persuasive.

As it was, obviously these people knew the treasure

they had and were guarding it carefully. Grant settled

back and finished the chocolate bar.

He had enjoyed the trip. It felt good being at the

controls of a spaceplane once more, even if it was a

rental, and a cheap one at that. He threw the candy

wrapper in the trash compactor, took another look at

the antique machine that he'd brought with him. He'd

strapped the unit into the copilot's seat to keep it from

being jostled. The machine was still humming, loudly,

contentedly. Grant found himself humming, too. A tune-

less song, a song whose words he'd long since forgotten

... or had never known. Something about robot blues.

He puttered around the plane, tidying up, for he knew

he would be receiving visitors. This done, he went back

to his chair and amused himself by watching the comings

and goings of the squadrons, naming each type of plane

as it landed or took off, imagining himself at the con-

trols, wondering what missions they were flying. He was

so absorbed in watching and imagining and wondering

that he didn't, at first, notice the rather odd procession

advancing across the tarmac toward his plane. When he

did, he glanced at them, said to himself "Time for your

debriefing, Captain," and returned to revel in the glori-

 

ous sight of a Claymore bomber thundering into the

Pandoran sky.

The MPs saluted. Grant was quick to open the hatch,

so as not to annoy anyone. He met his guests at the

entrance to the small plane.

"Please come in, Captain, sir, Captain, ma'am." he

said shyly, speaking standard military, to put them at

ease. "You. too, uh ..." He was momentarily stumped

on the lovely personage with the lipstick, long hair,

pants, and an Adam's apple. He finally gave up and

coughed to cover his embarrassment. As for the small

figure in the fedora and the raincoat, Grant looked at it

with interest. Turning to the female captain. he said po-

litely, "Your child, ma'am?"

"Uh, no." the woman replied, taken aback. "He's--"

"A spy," said the lovely long-haired person. "He's in-

cognito. So am I." The lovely person sat down. crossed

his legs. "You won't tell, will you?"

"No, certainly. Of course not," Grant murmured.

The female captain appeared to be under considerable

strain and this exchange did nothing to relax her. She

frowned and bit her lip and shot an irritated glance at

the male captain.

"Won't you all please sit down?" Grant said, recalling

the duties of a host. "Would you care for refreshment?

I have soft drinks and chocolate bars."

"No, thank you," the male captain said, smiling po-

litely. "My name is Captain Xris Kergonan. This is Cap-

tain Tess Strauss. This is my aide, Corporal de

Beausoleil. and this person"--he indicated the small

being in the raincoat--"is known only as the Little One.

I can't tell you his real name. Military security."

Grant nodded. "Very sound."

"What?" Captain Kergonan appeared confused.

"1 said, 'Very sound,'" Grant reiterated. "In light of

the circumstances. Now"--he clasped his hands together,

to keep from wringing them, which would have looked

undignified--"please tell me. Where is the robot?"

"Robot?" Captain Kergonan leaned against the con-

trol panel. "I must tell you. Mr."--he lifted his hand,

glanced at the pilot's license he held: the MPs had con-

 

 

 

 

fiscated the license immediately upon Grant's arrival--

"Mr. Grant, that you are in very serious trouble. The

people of Pandor do not like off-worlders. They have

laws which prohibit them from visiting this planet--"

"Oh, dear," said Grant, truly distressed. "I didn't

know. I'm terribly sorry. Will this cause an ... an ..."

Momentarily he couldn't think of the word. "An inci-

dent, do you suppose?"

"That's why we're here," said Captain Strauss. "We're

going to try to smooth this over. I'm sure you don't want

to cause trouble."

"I really didn't mean to violate any laws," Jeffrey

Grant said, worried. "I suppose I should have checked

first, before I came, but I was so upset about the robot,

you see. I didn't know who had it and I was afraid they

might damage--"

"Excuse me. What robot?" Captain Kergonan asked

mildly.

At this point, the lovely person--Grant couldn't recall

his name--reached out with a delicate hand and tugged

on the back end of Captain Kergonan's uniform.

"Give it up, Xris Cyborg," said the lovely person. He

indicated the small being in the raincoat. "The Little

One says to inform you that this drab gray person is not

Sakuta or Harsch or anyone else except himself. And"--

dramatic pause--"he himself knows more about the

robot than anyone else here in this spaceplane."

Jeffrey Grant smiled shyly, proudly, glad to be

appreciated.

 

CHfiPIER

 

Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper.

 

Francis Bacon, "Apophthegms contained in

Resuscitatio" No. 36

 

Dr. Quong and Tycho, accompanied by two MPs,

walked over to the maintenance shed. The MPs had

been briefed by Tess, who told them that a problem had

developed with the colonel's exhibit materials; the crate

appeared to be malfunctioning. Although it presented

no threat at the moment, Dr. Quong and Tycho, expert

on biochemical warfare, were going to check the crate

out, remove it to a place of safety. The MPs were or-

dered to show Quong and Tycho the way to the mainte-

nance shed, go along to see that no unauthorized

personnel obstructed the proceedings.

Not being required to strictly guard the two, the MPs

walked several paces ahead, clearly not wanting to come

any closer to Tycho than was necessary. The "chame-

leon," for his part, altered the shade of his skin to a

sickly bluish gray, which, with his excessive thinness,

made it look as if he were in the last stages of some

wasting disease. He and Quong were able to talk freely

without fear of anyone overhearing.

"Why is it," Tycho grumbled, his translator giving his

voice a tinny, mechanical sound, "that no one ever hires

us for a normal job?"

"Define normal," Quong said.

 

 

 

 

"I could if I wanted to," Tycho said, taking offense.

"In several different languages."

"No, no. That's not what I meant. What do you con-

sider to be a normal job for people such as ourselves?"

"Ah, I see. Yes, well.. 7' Tycho gave it some thought.

"Not the job itself so much as the fact that it should

have a clear-cut beginning, a clean middle, and a swift

and satisfactory finish. And the money should be good

and in no way traceable. With us, it's always the same.

Either the job gets screwed up somehow or we end up

having to report the income. Or both."

"Friend Tycho, as a citizen, it is your duty to pay

taxes," Quong said seriously.

"And who tries, every year, to take the payments on

his sports runabout as a medical deduction?"

Quong bristled. "Driving the runabout is a reliever of

stress, as I have several times informed you. I have a

written medical opinion--" "Of your own writing."

"--that it is necessary for my mental well-being-- Ah,

I think we have arrived at our destination."

The MPs had stopped, were talking to a sergeant, who

was wiping greasy hands on a rag and looking consider-

ably alarmed.

"The crate is over there in the corner, sirs," he said

as Tycho and Quong approached. He nodded in the gen-

eral direction, apparently had no intention of getting any

closer. "There's nothing wrong with it, is there?"

"We certainly hope not, Sergeant. Now, have you or

any of your people come within a three-meter distance

of the crate?" Dr. Quong asked crisply.

"Three meters." The sergeant ruminated, shook his

head. "Nope, sir. Why? What would happen if we did?"

Tycho produced a strange-looking instrument from his

briefcase. Activating it, he pointed it at the sergeant and

touched a button, producing a slight whooshing sound.

A series of lights began to flash different colors.

"What's that, sir?" The sergeant eyed it suspiciously.

"Have you experienced any of the following in the

past twelve hours: dizziness, nausea, trouble swallowing,

fever, swelling of the hands or feet, bloody stools,

 

coughing, vomiting, or premature ejaculation?" Dr.

Quong asked, electronic notebook in hand.

"Huh?" The sergeant blinked at them, backed up a

pace. "I--"

"What about tenderness of the stomach, swelling of

the head, skin eruption, or attention deficit disorder?"

The sergeant, looking worried, put his hand to his

brow. "Now you mention it, I--"

"Thank you!" Tycho said abruptly, switching off his

toothbrush and inserting it back into his briefcase. "All

appears normal, Doctor. He has not been contaminat--

er--affected."

"Excellent, excellent," Quong murmured. "Now, Ser-

geant, if you could show us the crate ..."

"Over there, sir, next to the Devastator. You can't

miss it." The sergeant stood his ground, was apparently

not going anywhere near the crater.

"Thank you, Sergeant," said Dr. Quong, and turned

to the other mechanics. "Perhaps you gentlemen could

wait outside."

This request was obeyed with alacrity, most of those

within the work area having already sidled over near the

door. When everyone was outside the shed, the MPs

took up a position in front of the door, a completely

unnecessary precaution.

"See, friend Tycho?" said Quong, as they walked over

to find the robot crate. "This was easy."

They discovered the crate leaning up against the Dev-

astator, just where Xris had described it. Tycho bent his

long, thin frame, crouched down to peer at it.

"You are being overly pessimistic," the doctor contin-

ued. Quong remained standing, keeping an eye on the MPs.

"Am I?" Tycho straightened. His expression was grim.

His skin had flushed to a fevered orange. "Take a look

at this and tell me if I'm being a pestilence."

"Pessimist," Quong corrected; Tycho's translator oc-

casional lapsed into incoherence.

The doctor walked over, bent down to study the robot

crate. He took a good, long look. Quong raised his gaze.

"Oh, shit," he said.

"Without a paddle," Tycho added gloomily.

 

 

 

 

CHfiPI[R

 

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate?

Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies,

Thought would destroy their paradise.

 

Thomas Gray, "Ode on a Distant Prospect of

Eton College"

 

Ignorance is bliss and Xris was, for the moment, blissful.

Or rather, he had his own set of problems and was

operating under the assumption that these problems

were his most urgent problems. Which meant that he

was currently blissful, if only by contrast.

He and Tess, Raoul and the Little One were all

crowded together in the front of the rent-a-plane, dis-

cussing Jeffrey Grant. Grant hovered near, shy, uncom-

fortable, and persistent.

"You're saying that the Little One figured this all out

telepathically." Tess cast a scornful glance at the rain-

coated figure. "And that's how he knows that this man

knows about the robot."

"Of course," Raoul said loftily. "How else would he

know?"

"Oh, maybe because this man works for you. That he

showed up right on cue--"

"For what reason?" Xris asked impatiently. "To do

what?"

Tess lifted her hands helplessly. "I don't know! I don't

know anything anymore. 1 don't know who to believe.

 

All right. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that the

Little One is right. That this man does know something

about the robot. How?"

"Maybe he's Harsch," Xris suggested. "Maybe he's

using the telepathic scrambler."

The Little One opened his small palms, slapped him-

self on the forehead several times.

"No. He could tell," Raoul stated flatly.

The Little One put his head between his two hands,

heedlessly smashing the rim of the fedora, and rocked

his head back and forth, rolling his eyes.

"He said that the entire time we were with Sakuta,

he"--Raoul gently touched his friend on the shoulder--"

felt dizzy and sick. He thought it was some sort of flu

and he said nothing about it, for fear Dr. Quong would

start poking at him again. No offense to the good doc-

tor," Raoul hastened to add. "But you must admit that

his bedside manner is somewhat abrupt--"

"The telepathic scrambler," Xris reminded Raoul. The

iridescent-winged mind had fluttered from one flower of

conversation to another, required netting.

"Ah, yes." Raoul had to pause to think of where he'd

been. "The Little One thought he was coming down with

the flu. He didn't, however. His health has been excel-

lent, as you know. The strange feeling passed, but it left

him rather out of sorts. In a bad mood. He kept thinking

that something was wrong and he should know what,

but he couldn't figure it out. And then, during the party,

when I mentioned to Darlene that the assassins had

scramblers, he put two and whatever that other number

is together and came up with--"

"Assassins? Scramblers?" Tess looked from Xris to

Raoul.

"Not important," Xris said. "Another case we were

working on. I know one thing. This isn't the same person

I met at the museum. Not by a long shot. Of course,

Harsch might be a master of disguise."

"The Little One says that this is not Harsch," Raoul

reiterated. "The Little One is of the opinion that this

Grant person is precisely the Grant person he claims to

be. He has acquired knowledge about the robot from

 

 

 

 

years of study of ancient space flight, with particular em-

phasis on ... on ..." Raoul waved a vague hand. "Pro-

fessor Lasagna ..."

"Lasairion, sir," Jeffrey Grant corrected. He had been

listening to the conversation with the befuddled gaze of

someone whose translator is on the fritz. He could un-

derstand a few words from time to time, but most of

the talk was meaningless. Now, however, he had heard

something he understood. He rose to his feet, literally

trembling with excitement. "Do you know about Profes-

sor Lasairion?"

Raoul bowed from the waist. "God forbid. I am

merely the translator. And then, of course, there is his

machine."

"What machine?" Tess demanded, clearly rattled.

Raoul pointed to the copilot's chair. They all trooped

around to look. In the chair, strapped in lovingly with

extreme care, was some sort of strange-looking machine.

A small electric backlit screen tilted up from an ancient

computer keyboard--the kind with all the letters in the

most inconvenient places. A blue light flashed intermit-

tently on the side of the machine. An odd, yet not un-

pleasant humming emanated from it.

"Please don't touch it, Captain," Grant begged, as the

entire contingent stared at it. "It's very old and

delicate."

"Another antique," Xris said. "With a few more of

these we could hold a garage sale."

"It is very special," Raoul said, with a knowing flutter

of his eyelids. "This machine is in communication with

the robot. According to the Grant-person, that is why it

is making that tooth-grating sound."

Jeffrey Grant gazed at the Little One in astonishment.

"That's exactly what I was thinking! He's quite remark-

able, isn't he, sir? As for the humming sound, I know it

is a bit irritating. I'm really sorry, but there's nothing

I can do to stop it. I'm not completely certain how it

works--"

Tess interrupted him. "This machine's in communica-

tion with the robot .... Good God!" She bent down,

 

peered at it mterffiy. "Are you telling me that this ma-

chine is a ... a Collimated Command Receiver Unit?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Jeffrey Grant clapped his pudgy hands

together. "Absolutely correct! And may I say, ma'am,

that you're the first person I've ever encountered who

has studied the work of Professor Lasairion. How did

you--"

"I'm asking the questions," Tess snapped, and then

she didn't ask anything. She stood in silence, frowning

deeply at the humming machine.

Xris took advantage of the lull in the conversation to

have a private talk with Raoul.

"What's going on with this guy?" Xris asked quietly,

keeping his back to Grant. "What's the Little One pick-

ing up?"

Raoul shook his head--carefully, so as not to muss

his hair. "You know how the Little One feels about

technology, my friend. He doesn't understand it. He

doesn't like it. He finds that it frightens him. This man's

mind is a technological jungle. The Little One says that

looking inside the Grant person is akin to looking be-

neath the hood of a hoverjeep. It is filled with objects

that make no sense to him."

"No sign that this is all a put-on? An act?"

The Little One, crowding beside Xris to hear, shook

his own head emphatically.

Tess had apparently thought out what she wanted to

say. "Where are you from, Mr, Grant? How did you

come into possession of the Collimated Command Re-

ceiver Unit? When did the unit start to ... uh ... hum?

How did you know to come to Pandot to find the

robot?"

Grant looked somewhat confused, decided to take the

questions in order. "I'm from the planet XIO, Captain.

I run a museum there--" Xris snorted.

Grant paused, regarded him anxiously. "Did I say

something--"

"l've had it up to here with museum curators, that's

all. Never mind. Go on."

"I have been a collector of space memorabilia for over

 

 

 

 

fifty years, sir," Grant said with quiet pride. He seemed

to feel better, talking about himself. "Ever since I was

a child. This"--he laid a hand lovingly on the Collimated

Command Receiver Unit--"is my most valued posses-

sion, though not, I must say, my most valuable. The unit

was offered for sale over one of the computer bulletin

boards. Its owner obviously had no idea what he had. I

recognized it immediately from his description. He

wanted a lot for it, mainly because it was old, not be-

cause he knew its true worth. After a month of delicate

negotiations, during which I had to appear interested,

but not too interested, I drove down his price and finally

acquired the Collimated Command Receiver Unit. It has

resided in an honored place in my museum for the last

twenty years. Beneath it is a plaque that reads: ONLY

KNOWN RELIC OF THE LASAIRION PERIOD." He was wistful.

"I only need the robot to complete my collection. I have

a special place all ready to house it."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Grant," Tess said, firmly but kindly

destroying all hope. "That robot is government

property."

"Yes, I know," he said softly. "But I would take good

care ..." His voice trailed off.

Xris took a twist out of the gold case, studied it long-

ingly, glanced out the window at the MPs on guard out-

side the spaceplane. He put the cigarette back in its case,

the case in his pocket. He looked at his watch.

"Captain Strauss," he said. "Could I have a word

with you?"

Tess glanced uncertainly at the machine, then at

Grant. Keeping them both in sight, she walked over to

where Xris was standing. "What is it?"

"I know that this is all very fascinating from a scien-

tific point of view, but we're running out of time," Xris

said in a low voice. "I arranged to meet Sakuta at Hell's

Outpost tomorrow. How long will it take you to debrief

the robot?"

"You mean download the information? Several hours,

maybe all day," Tess said. "I'm going to have to experi-

ment; finding the correct interface could prove difficult.

 

And now there's this unit. This makes everything a lot

more complicated."

"Yeah. Just answer me one question: Do I or do I

not take the robot to Sakuta?" "Harsch."

"Whoever!" Xris was losing patience. "Look, you've

got the robot. Let's take it and the unit back to the

command cruiser and let the admiral deal with it."

"What about Grant?" Tess asked. "He may be as in-

nocent and naive as he looks, but he may also be one

hell of a good actor. Suppose he is an agent for Harsch?

He comes to get the 'bot, discovers that we already have

it. So he plays stupid."

"And brings along an antique machine as a prop?

Well, I suppose anything's possible." Xris was edgy. He

wanted to get this job over with, fast. He didn't like the

idea of Darlene out there somewhere on her own.

"Look, you can shoot him, for all I care--"

"I can't do that!" Tess was shocked. "He's a civilian!"

Xris grinned. "So am I. And you were ready to

shoot me."

Tess ignored him. 'Tll go back to HQ, relay all this

to the Admiralty. You stay here with Grant." "What about the unit?"

"The unit comes with me for safekeeping."

"Still don't trust me, huh?"

"Sure I do," Tess said, patting him on the shoulder.

She returned to Jeffrey Grant. "I'm afraid I'm going to

have to confiscate your Collimated Command Receiver

Unit, Mr. Grant. Don't worry. The government will com-

pensate you."

Grant looked stricken, moved to stand protectively in

front of the unit. "But I don't want to be compensat--"

Xris heaved a sigh, glanced again at his watch. He

should have heard from Tycho and Quong by now, won-

dered what they were doing.

Tess attempted to soothe the distraught museum cura-

tor. "Please, Mr. Grant, I don't want any trouble. The

government has the right to confiscate any equipment

that might affect national security."

"Don't worry, Grant. We'll give it back," Xris said.

 

 

 

 

"Thank you, Captain Kergonan." Tess shot him a

warning glance. "But I'm perfectly capable of handling

this."

"By this time next year," Xris muttered.

Jeffrey Grant was looking from Xris to Tess to the

unit and back to Xris again.

"The Navy just wants to study the unit," Xris ex-

plained. "We'll make a few vids of it. Then we'll give it

back. If that's what you want."

"Personally," Raoul offered his opinion, "I'd take the

money. Buy a new wardrobe," he hinted.

"I don't want the money, sir. Or a wardrobe. I want

my Collimated Command Receiver Unit." Jeffrey Grant

was firm.

"Fine. No problem.*' Xris was eager to please.

"Captain ..." Tess was beginning to get irritated.

Grabbing hold of her hand, Xris gave it a squeeze.

"This is for your king, Mr. Grant," Xris said solemnly.

"For your king and your galaxy."

"For the king," Grant murmured.

Xris could have sworn he saw the man's hand start to

lift in a salute. "Very well, sir." Jeffrey Grant altered

his move, put his hand lovingly on top of his humming

Collimated Command Receiver Unit. "You can take it,

ma'am. But I insist on coming with it."

"We'll see," said Tess, in a tone which meant Not on

your life. "I'11 have to clear that with the Admiralty."

Grant slowly nodded. His eyes blinked rapidly. "The

unit has a traveling case. I'll get it." He went to the

back of the plane, began to rummage around loudly in

a storage bin.

Tess sidled over near Xris. "You know he'll never see

that machine again."

"I know that. You know that. He doesn't," Xris said.

Tess sighed. "Sometimes I really hate this job."

Grant returned with the case. Fussily, refusing all of-

fers of assistance, he packed the unit securely inside the

case, closed it.

Xris stepped politely around Grant, bent down, lifted

the case. It wasn't particularly heavy, though somewhat

awkward. He handed it to Tess.

 

"Good-bye, Mr. Grant," she said. "Thank you."

Carrying the case, she left the spaceplane. Xris

watched her walk across the tarmac. Grant was watch-

ing, too, his face and hands pressed up against the

steelglass, his expression that of a parent who's lost a

custody battle.

"She'll take good care of it," Xris said. "I promise

you."

"I wish I coutd see it. The robot, I mean," Grant

said softly.

"So do I. Before they blow it up," Raoul added

offhandedly.

"What?" Jeffrey Grant turned. He had gone a sort of

sickly wax color. "What did you say, sir? Blow it up!"

"Yes, we have a bomb. It's in Jamil's briefcase. We're

going to plant it in the robot and detonate it."

Grant's mouth opened and shut several times before

he could make anything coherent come out. "Why ...

why ... why would they do such a terrible thing?"

Xris was grim. This was just all he needed. "Raoul,

you and the Little One go see if you can find out what's

keeping Quong."

Raoul cast a horrified glance out the window onto the

baking tarmac. He looked back at Xris, reproachful.

"You know how bad the sun is for my complexion. Do

you want to see me covered with freckles?"

At the moment, Xris would have liked to have seen

Raoul covered with blood-sucking leeches. Grant was

breathing funny, quivering all over, and making odd

gasping sounds.

"I'll risk it," Xris snarled. "Go. Go on. Both of you.

Beat it."

Hurt, Raoul rose majestically to his feet and swept

out of the spaceplane, the Little One trudging behind.

Outside, Raoul put his hand over his forehead in a vain

attempt to shield himself from the ravages of UV rays.

Taking the Little One by the hand, he ran as fast as the

Little One's short legs would carry him, heading for the

nearest shade.

Xris assisted the stricken Grant to a chair. "I'11 get

you some water. Are you on any type of medication?"

 

 

 

 

"No, no, sir. I'm fine." Grant was bewildered. He

clutched at Xris. "Why are you going to blow it up?"

"We're not. Raoul misunderstood. We'll keep the

robot safe. I promise you." Xris was making a lot of

promises. Maybe someday he could actually keep one.

"Just relax, Mr. Grant. Don't worry. Perhaps if you told

me a little more about this professor--"

Xris's built-in commlink, located in his left ear,

buzzed--a bad sign. It meant that one of the team had

something to communicate which was strictly private.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Grant? I ... uh ... gotta

go ..." He motioned in the direction of the head.

Grant nodded vaguely back and whispered, "Blow it

up!..."

Xris left the bridge.

The head in these rent-a-spaceplanes was small for a

normal-sized person. Xris, with his large shoulders and

broad chest, was a tight fit. He had to work to shut the

door, and then was forced to straddle the toilet. One

elbow was in the sink.

"Xris here. What is it?" he said, keeping his voice low.

"Quong here. Bad news, boss. The robot's gone."

"Gone?" Xris lxotested. "What do you mean, gone?

Someone stole it? That's impossible! The case itself

weighed in at about a metric ton, not to mention the

robot! It'd take a crane to lift it--"

"Hold on, boss," Quong cut in. "The case is still here.

From a preliminary investigation, I'd say the 'bot freed

itself. The case has been popped open, from the inside."

"I'll be damned .... "Xris was awed, stunned, amazed,

and in a hell of a lot of trouble. "Find it!" he ordered,

squeezing the words out of his constricting chest. "Don't

say a word to anyone, just find it!"

"Sure, boss." Quong was confident. "What does it

look like? There's a lot of robots working around here."

"Not like this one. Picture a metal jellyfish with sad

eyes. Once you've got it, sit tight and get back in touch."

"Yes, boss. Quong out."

Xris took a twist, chomped down on it savagely,

chewed it, and swore, briefly and bitterly. He indulged

in one of his favorite pastimes--beating himself up. He

 

should have anticipated this. He should have taken pre-

cautions. He should have this. He should have that.

But the damn 'bot had seemed so meek and

compliant ....

"Fuck it!" Xris said loudly.

He slammed open the door to the head, walked to the

bridge and right on past. "Please stay here, Mr. Grant,"

Xris said. "I've got to leave for a few minutes. I'll send

someone for you shortly."

On his way out of the spaceplane, Xris picked up the

two MPs.

"Come with me," he ordered.

"Yes, Captain." The MPs obeyed with alacrity.

Xris was, after all, still in uniform.

 

 

 

 

CHnPTER

 

Opportunity makes a thief.

 

Francis Bacon, "A Letter of Advice

to the Earl of Essex"

 

Jeffrey Grant, left alone in his rent-a-plane, was barely

cognizant of the captain's departure. The shock had

left Grant dazed.

Blow up the robot!

Why? It wasn't harming anyone. Didn't they realize

how ... how wonderful this was? To be able to touch,

to speak, to listen to an entity that had been touched,

spoken to, and listened to by Lasairion--the great La-

sairion--himself!

And then came a cheering thought.

"Perhaps," Jeffrey Grant said to the console, "if they

don't want the robot, they would give it to me."

The female captain had said the robot was govern-

ment property. But surely, if he talked to the right per-

son... perhaps his planet's representative in Parliament.

Or the prime minister. Or--Grant seemed dimly to have

heard of an important talk show host ... Jeffrey Grant

couldn't say. He had never been much involved or even

interested in politics. His union had told him how and

where and when and for whom to vote and he had gone

and voted that way for as long as he had been eligible

to do so. The universe had seemed to run along very

satisfactorily in this manner. If only he could remember

a name ....

 

Grant closed his eyes and tried to think back. He re-

called a billboard for a political candidate. Grant could

see the face; he could, after a short struggle, remember

the woman's name. But had she won? Had that even

been the current election, or was he thinking of a bill-

board from ten years ago? He had no idea and eventu-

ally he gave up worrying about it. He formed a vague

plan of writing a letter to the king. Perhaps His Majesty

could persuade them not to blow up the robot, but to

let Grant have custody of it.

"I suppose they're worried about maintenance costs,"

Grant said to himself. "The upkeep might be a bit ex-

pensive, but I'd handle all that myself. I wouldn't ask

the government for a single credit."

With that thought, Jeffrey drifted into a happy

daydream.

"I would put it ... where? Over by the bookcase. Yes,

that's the place. It has the best light. I'll move the display

case that's there now into the back of the room. The

robot will be the first thing people see when they walk

into the door. And they'll be amazed. They'll be over-

whelmed. I I1 be the only museum to own one. Scholars

will travel from all over the galaxy to study it. They'll

ask questions."

Jeffrey Grant's blissful contemplation of the future

was suddenly interrupted. He was seated in the pilot's

chair, looking out the viewscreen. He leaned forward,

stared. openmouthed.

They were hauling a Claymore bomber onto the

tarmac.

One of Jeffrey Grant's favorite space simulator games

was Wing Commander MCIII, in which he flew a Clay-

more bomber on various glorious missions to keep the

galaxy safe for commercial traffic. Grant had played this

game a few hundred times and had won every time ex-

cept the first, which he counted as just learning. And

here was the Claymore--a real Claymore--not fifty me-

ters away.

A hauler dragged the Claymore to a cleared area on

the tarmac. Once in place, the crew detached the hauler

and drove it off.

 

 

 

 

"I'm certain they won't mind if I just take a closer

look," Grant said to himself.

He walked to the hatch of the rent-a-plane, opened

it, and climbed down the ladder onto the hot tarmac.

He looked about for the MPs, planning to shyly ask for

permission to walk over and inspect the Claymore. He

couldn't find the MPs.

Grant searched vaguely around, even glanced under

the rent-a-plane's belly. No, the MPs were gone.

They must have left with Captain Kergonan, Grant

reasoned.

He was a little uncertain about leaving his plane. If

he had been the cause of an interplanetary incident, he

certainly didn't want to escalate it. He wished the MPs

were still here. They would have been able to advise

him. He looked across the tarmac to a large building, the

control tower. He glanced back toward the Claymore.

Grant could either walk over to the control tower--a

long walk in the hot sun--and ask permission to go look

at their Claymore or he could walk over to the Clay-

more. He didn't intend to stay long. He just wanted to

see it close up.

"What harm can there be?" Grant asked himself. 'Tll

take a quick peep. That's all."

He started off across the tarmac.

Something wasn't quite right.

Grant halted, pondered, then knew what he should be

doing. Returning to his own plane, he picked up his hel-

met. As the pilots did in his simulator game, he tucked

the helmet under his arm and, attired in his union flight

suit, he ran across the tarmac toward the Claymore.

He wasn't running to evade pursuit. In his mind,

Grant could hear the sireils blowing, the order shouted,

"Man your planes!" He was one of an elite group of

brave men and women ready to risk their lives for what-

ever cause was on today's plate. His white silk scarf

trailed behind him as he ran. He reached the bomber.

His crew chief was there, waiting for him. "Minx noggle," said the crew chief.

Grant blinked away the daydream. He stood beneath

 

the belly of the Claymore, sweating in his hot flight suit,

breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath.

Confronting Jeffrey Grant was a robot.

It took Grant only a few seconds to realize that this

was the robot.

He had, of course, seen old vids. One in particular

came to mind. Professor Lasairion in his laboratory, ex-

hibiting one of the Lane-laying robots. This robot would,

the professor said, "take humankind into the stars,

where, I trust, humans will have learned from their past

mistakes and will use this opportunity to carry civiliza-

tion forward into the twenty-second century."

This robot was the robot of the vid--dangling reticu-

lated arms, saucer-shaped head, humanlike eyes. Those

eyes were regarding Grant with interest. A green light

began to flash on the robot's head. The pupils of the

eyes widened.

Grant felt funny, as if the robot were able to see in-

side him.

"Reep glut?" The robot had a questioning tone.

Grant glanced about nervously. He expected Captain

Strauss or Captain Kergonan or perhaps the short spy

in the hat to appear and take the robot away. No one was in sight.

Grant waited a few more moments, standing on the

broiling hot tarmac in the shadow of the enormous Clay-

more, watching and listening.

Nothing. ú

And then Grant knew what had happened. The robot

had escaped.

"Run away!" said something inside Jeffrey Grant,

something strange and foreign and alien. "Take the

robot and run away! Save it from being blown up! Now!

Quick! Before they come back!"

Grant trembled. He knew that voice. He'd heard it

before, on occasion. It was always trying to get him to

do wild and daring things. "Tell Ms Kline next door that

you've always loved her! .... Tell the boss it was your

idea! ....Tell the guys you'd like to join them for a

drink!"

 

 

 

 

No, I can't .... I couldn't possibly .... Leave me alone.

I'm fine the way I am.

Grant had always before been able to tune out that

rabble-rousing voice. He could shut it off, as he occa-

sionally shut off the sound on one of his rid games. He

hadn't heard the voice much in his later years (it had

bothered him excessively when he was young), and he

was rather hoping it had retired. He was considerably

disturbed to hear it, irritating and insistent as ever

before.

"Save the robot! If you don't, they'll kill it!"

"This is outrageous, sir!" Grant returned, flustered.

"You're insane! You are seriously contemplating steal-

ing government property and making off with it! This is

a capital crime, sir. All offense against the Crown. They

might consider it kidnapping. They might consider it

treason!"

"It's murder, Jeffrey Grants" said the inner voice.

"They're going to kill it."

Grantrs imagination was, from long practice, ex-

tremely vivid. He saw the robot sitting in some disinte-

grator chamber, saw the female captain sealing up the

door and walking away. He saw and heard the cyborg

give the order to detonate. He saw, he heard, he felt the

robot explode, arms torn asunder, fluid spattering

against the walls, eyes popping out ....

"I'll do'it, sir!" said Jeffrey Grant firmly, and he aston-

ished the inner voice so much that it shut up.

"Mrft," said the robot. The green light had ceased to

flash. The pupils returned to normal size. The robot

turned away, began to drift off toward the front of the

Claymore.

Grant followed it, wondering how he was going to get

hold of it, haul it back to his rent-a-plane. He glanced

around the airfield, fearful that someone would see

them.

No one did. No one was around.

Grant trailed after the robot, who was now examining

the Claymore, the green light on its head flashing again.

"Of course!" Grant said, watching the robot with in-

terest. "It's scanning the plane. Just as it must have

 

scanned me. I wonder," he wondered wistfully, "what it

thought of me."

Not much, apparently. The robot didn't give him a

second look. Grant followed it, cobbling his plan

together.

Once he had smuggled the 'bot onto his spaceplane,

he would have to hide it somewhere.

The bathroom. It would fit nicely into the shower stall.

"Then I'll take off," Grant said. "I'll have to request

clearance, of course. This might prove to be a problem.

But I've given them the unit, after all. They don't seem

to be interested in me now. Perhaps they'll be glad to

get rid of me."

He felt a pang of regret, leaving the unit behind. But

it was either that or lose the robot, and the robot was

far more important. Besides, Captain Kergonan had

promised to return the machine once they were finished

with it.

"I'll simply explain to the people in air traffic control

that I have to get back home. To ... to ..."

What were people always going home to do? Feed the

cat. See the wife and kids. Water the plants. Any or all

of the above.

Grant was certain the Army would let him go.

Fairly certain. Almost certain.

"I won't worry about that now," Grant said to himself.

The important thing was to smuggle the robot aboard

his spaceplane.

"Excuse me," Grant said shyly, speaking to the robot.

It had reached the open bomb bay. The robot's eyes

focused on the hatch. It paid no attention to Jeffrey

Grant. He recalled the old vid of Professor Lasairion.

That vid had been subtitled.

The robot didn't understand Standard Military! But it

could learn. He recalled this fact from his studies. Lasair-

ion had believed in life on other planets. He hoped that

his galaxy-traveling 'hots would encounter other life-

forms and that, when they did, they would communicate

with them. The professor had therefore given the 'bots

the ability to record the spoken language of other be-

ings, with the instruction that they bring the recordings

 

 

 

 

back for study. The robot was also, by means of auto-

event comparison and frequency-of-sound analysis, sup-

posed to have the ability to "learn" languages. Grant needed the robot's attention.

"Lasairion," Jeffrey Grant said shyly, experimentally.

At the sound of his voice, a blue light began to flash

on the top of the robot's head. It pulsed four times, to

the syllables of the professor's name.

The robot turned. The sad eyes were suddenly bright.

It reached out one of its arms. Metal fingers took hold

of Jeffrey Grant's sleeve, gave it a gentle tug, then let

loose.

"You," it said.

"Me?" Grant was momentarily confused, then real-

ized what was being asked. "No, I'm not Professor

Lasairion."

But, of course, the robot must know this. It had

scanned him and evinced no sign of interest in him until

he spoke the professor's name.

Obviously, the 'bot was trained to search for alien life-

forms. Grant was nothing new. He was merely human.

But now that he'd mentioned the professor, the robot

was interested in him.

"Watch it," said the robot. "Next you'll be giving it

a name."

The robot was speaking Standard Military as well as

anyone in the military. As well as Captain Kergonan. In

fact, the robot sounded a great deal like Captain Kergo-

nan. Of course! Grant realized, excited. That was be-

cause the robot must have been speaking to Captain

Kergonan. The 'bot had recorded the captain's voice and

was using its programming to try to make sense of the

words. Either that or it was selecting phrases at random.

Grant didn't think that likely.

"Name," he repeated, then added, "Jeffrey Grant."

The blue light pulsed and Grant realized that the

robot must be recording him. Grant was pleased, flat-

tered ... touched.

The robot's sad, humanlike eyes gazed at Grant stead-

ily. The 'bot appeared to be considering. "You and l--

we're just going to take a little walk."

 

"Yes," said Grant eagerly. He half turned, pointed to

his spaceplane. "Over there." He took a few steps in

that direction, hoped the robot would follow.

Such a method was, he believed, supposed to work

with dogs.

"Halt) Stop)" the robot commanded.

Grant stopped, turned around, pleaded, "Please, you

must come with me. Now) Quickly! Before someone

finds you!"

The robot lifted one of the metal arms, pointed

toward the hatch of the Claymore. "You go inside."

Good grief! The robot was going to save itself! It was

going to hide in the Claymore. And it wanted him to

come along.

Why? Grant stared at the robot. The robot stared

back. Grant saw his reflection in the metal saucer

head ....

"Of course! I'm wearing a flight suit!"

He almost shouted, he was so enthused. Communicat-

ing with the robot was exhilarating, fun! It was like try-

ing to solve a crossword puzzle.

"And I'm carrying a helmet. Which means that the

robot has mistaken me for the pilot. The robot doesn't

want to hide in the Claymore. It wants me to fly the

Claymore! The robot is trying to save itself!"

"Do it)" said that troublemaking voice inside him.

"I couldn't," Grant whispered, suddenly appalled at

his temerity. "Could I?"

"Don't be frightened," counseled the robot in Captain

Kergonan's voice.

Grant had the feeling there were three people lined

up against him, urging him on: the robot, Captain Kergo-

nan, and the inner self.

"No, no, I won't be frightened," Grant promised. He

looked up at the hatch, looked at the bomber, which was

really much larger than it had looked in virtual reality.

After all, he'd flown a Claymore a thousand times.

And they were going to blow up the robot.

The robot floated effortlessly into the bomb bay and

then turned to examine the hatch. Grant had to climb

the ladder to the hatch quickly in order to keep up.

 

 

 

 

The robot used one of its attachments on its tool arm

to force open the hatch.

Grant dropped down inside the bomber, looked

around. He was terrified, excited, and exalted all at the

same time. It was different from the flight simulator.

These controls were real, not portrayed on a screen. It

was ... well ... grayer than he'd pictured. Dirtier. Not

that the inside of the bomber was dirty; it was kept in

good condition. But the real thing was different from

the simulation. It wasn't pristine, wasn't perfect. One of

the steelglass faces on a dial had a crack in it. He

touched the instruments, felt hard edges, smooth sur-

faces beneath his fingers. The metal was hot, from the

sun shining in through the viewscreen. The interior

smelled of metal and of stale sweat and musty webbing,

warm plastic and a brown, shriveled apple core that

someone had tossed toward the trash compactor and

missed.

Grant sat down in the pilot's seat, studied the controls,

and panicked.

The controls were not the same. They were similar,

but not the same. Of course, for security reasons, the

makers of the game wouldn't be allowed to replicate

exactly the insides of a Claymore. He recognized a few:

atmospheric pressure, airspeed, space speed, vector con-

troller. But what were those blue baubles that sat in

some sort of liquid with silver reflectors, or the myriad

of computer consoles with keys hanging just above their

banks of switches?

This was a mistake. A very bad mistake. Grant had

always known he would get into trouble listening to that

inner voice.

He had to leave, before someone caught him! He tried

to stand up, but his legs wouldn't support his sagging

body.

The robot shut the hatch, sealed it.

Grant gasped and gulped, then stared, baffled, at the

myriad controls.

"I'm sorry ..." he began faintly.

The robot tapped him on the shoulder. Its arm

pointed to a berth at the back of the crew's living quar-

 

ters. Claymores were equipped to make the Jump to

hyperspace, which meant that they could take journeys

which might last days or weeks.

"Don't be frightened," the robot said again.

Grant pushed himself up from the pilot's chair, tot-

tered on unsteady feet. Hesitantly, he moved away.

The robot floated over to the bornher's controls, stud-

ied them--green light flashing. It reached out one of its

arms, plugged the attachment on the end of the arm

directly into the console.

Minutes ticked by. Grant, sweating, stared out the

viewscreen, waited--hoped--someone would come.

The robot spoke again. "I understand, computer. We

can communicate. Command Sequence Request, stand

by to receive."

The computer responded. "Protocol low, require au-

thorization and voice print."

"Voice print negative," returned the robot. "Protocol

low for security. Analyze feature packet sending . . .

now."

"Unknown packet type."

"Your request was garbled, please resend."

"I didn't send anything," said the computer. "I re-

quest that you send authorization."

"You are responding to my request for authorization,"

the robot returned. "Last command was garbled. Please

resend your authorization and command structure

information."

"Sending," said the computer. "Please stand by."

"The robot doesn't need me," Jeffrey Grant realized

out loud. "Then why am I here? And where is it going?"

The robot shifted around, looked back at him.

"I've got a job to do," it said in Captain Kergonan's

voice.

Jeffrey Grant blinked. "Oh, my," he said softly.

"Oh, dear."

He laid down on the berth. He was dizzy, having dif-

ficulty breathing.

"Oh, my goodness," he said again.

"Sleep tight," said the robot.

 

 

 

 

CHfiPTER

 

The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of

all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this

is true.

 

James Branch Cabell, The Silver Stallion

 

Acorporal drove Harry Luck and Jamil over to the air-

field. Jamil, sleepy, grumpy, and irritated, threw him-

self in the back, crossed his arms over his chest, and

glowered at the back of Harry's head.

Harry, seated in front, chatted with the driver, who

happened to be a redhead. Harry had a weakness for

redheads.

"You ever flown in a Claymore bomber, Corporal?

What did you say your first name was? Janet? Is it all

right if I call you Janet? Oh, officers aren't supposed to,

huh? Fraternization. Whatever that means. Who made

up these dumb rules anyhow? I-- Yeah?" Harry turned

around in response to Jamil kicking the back of the seat.

"You want something?"

"Do you want something, sir?" Jamil growled.

"No, I'm fine, thanks. It's just--"

"I suggest, Captain Luck," Jamil said in loud and fro-

zen tones, "that you keep quiet and permit the corporal

to do her job."

"Yes, sir." Harry appeared properly chastened, but

when he turned around, he winked at the corporal, who

was having difficulty controlling her smile.

 

Janfil shut his eyes, sat back in his seat, and decided

the hell with it.

The next thing he knew, Harry was shaking his

shoulder.

"Jeez! I thought you'd never wake up! You feeling

any better?" Harry asked.

"No, I don't." Jamil growled. "I feel groggy and thick-

headed. We'll make a perfect team."

"We always do," Harry replied, flattered. "That han-

gar's where they towed the Claymore."

"You better fill me in on your story," Jamil said be-

neath his breath as they walked that direction.

Harry nodded. "I flew into Pandoran airspace. I'd

spotted that mother of a command cruiser on my way

in, so I sort of implied that I belonged to them. Said I

was on a routine scouting mission and that I'd developed

problems with the stabilizer. Now, if you got stabilizer

problems, they don't particularly want you attempting to

make a landing on a ship in space. Oh, sure, they can

tractor you in, but what happens when you reach the

docking bay?"

"I give up," Jamil said grimly. "What does happen?"

"Mostly they wash what's left of you out with a hose,"

Harry said, grinning. "It can be done, but it's a real

tricky maneuver and gives everyone a lot of tense mo-

ments. No one likes it, and they'd much rather you make

a land-based landing if possible. You got long runways,

lots of space to wobble around, and if you veer off you'll

end up in a cornfield, not the Lord Admiral's dining

room."

"I understand. So you informed Pandoran air control

that you had stabilizer problems."

"Yeah. They turned me over to the base airfield, who

checked me out, but only sort of. After all, that mother-

cruiser is floating around up there and everyone knows

it."

"What do you mean, they 'sort of' checked you out?

Either they did or they didn't."

The two were drawing near to the hangar. Ground

crewmen were eyeing them curiously.

Jamil halted.

 

 

Harry pretended to point out the interesting features

of a Stiletto fighter to the Army colonel.

"They said they were going to check with the cruiser,

to verify that I was one of hers. I gotta admit that gave

me a few tense moments," Harry commented, squinting

into the Pandoran sun, shading his face with his hand.

"But I guess they must've received verification, 'cause

they came back and said I was cleared to land."

"What name did you give?" Jamil asked.

"Harry Luck," said Harry. "Why? What name was I

supposed to give?"

"You ninny!" Jamil snorted. "The Lord Admiral was

the one who gave you clearance to land. Dixter recog-

nized your name, of course. Otherwise you'd have been

given clearance to land on the nearest prison planet."

"Oh, well." Harry shrugged, not much concerned. "As

long as it worked. Anyway, the landing looked real

good. I was all over the sky. And I bet I bounced sixty

meters back into the air when I hit the ground. That's

how I got the cut on my head. I don't suppose many

pilots could have brought that plane in--damaged like

that," he added with simple pride.

"You mean," Jamil said slowly, his brain sleep-

befuddled, "that you actually sabotaged the stabilizer be-

fore you came in for a landing?"

"Well, sure!" Harry returned. "I'm not that big a

dunce. Of course, I knew that they'd be looking for a

busted stabilizer and that they better find it ....Oh." He

paused, his face crinkled.

"Yes," said Jamil. "Why didn't you fake the landing,

then damage the stabilizer? You could have been pre-

tending to try to fix it."

"Yeah," Harry said thoughtfully. "I see your point. It

would have been a whole lot safer, huh?" "A whole lot," Jamil concurred.

"I'11 remember that." Harry nodded to himself.

"How did you manage to walk away from the airfield?

I presume they told you to stay here."

"Oh, yeah. They did." Harry grinned. "But I said 1

had to pee and the head of the ground crew said he bet

I did, after a landing like that. So I took off for the

 

john, walked in the front, out the back, and just kept

on going."

Jamil rubbed his neck. The Pandoran sun was baking

the tarmac, and him right along with it. He would have

given half of his not inconsiderable wealth (he'd been

making sound investments--with Tycho's help) for a

cool shower.

He reflected, as he stood there, sweaty and bone-tired

and miserable, on the fact that he and Xris had spent

long hours devising an intricate, complex, involved plan

for sneaking onto the base.

When all they would've had to do was say they had

to go pee.

He knew it was more complicated than that, but his

weary brain couldn't handle the detailsJ He was far more

content to be bitter over the injustice of it all.

"Where the hell's your damn plane?" he grumbled.

"In here. At least, that's where they towed it." Harry

led the way to the hangar, where he and Jamil were met