There were about a dozen androids in the room, moving here and there, dispatching orders as the Commander gave them.
Finally, the Commander turned. His face looked quite calm. "The BSA androids have started their attack on the Palace. My own androids are holding them off so far, of course, but that is only part of the diversion. The real, human assassin may get into the Palace by trickery. After that, it will be up to you."
He walked over to an arms cabinet. "Your personal equipment is here. Force-field belt, cutter beam—everything. And may I say—good luck."
A moment later, Bartol was seated in the private citadel of the Autarch himself, waiting for a murderer to come after him.
He rubbed his temples, trying to think. There was something he was supposed to do. What? It kept nagging at the corner of his mind, but it wouldn't come out into the open. Damn the Commander and his hypnotic compulsions!
What was it he kept trying to remember? Something he must remember! It was something about the Galactic League—was it something the Commander had told him?
The Galactic League was made up of some of the most powerful governments in the Galaxy. Their sole law, throughout the Galaxy, was that any planet could have the kind of government it wanted, except a government imposed by force.
And yet, the League never enforced that law—at least not by using space battleships and atomic bombs. They could send directives and remonstrances, but the Autarchs of Apollyon had been ignoring those for fifty years, and would go right on doing so.
Bartol shook his head again. He couldn't remember what was so important about the League. Probably some order that the Commander had given him which would become operative at a crucial moment. It was more deeply buried in his subconscious than the other orders.