Illustrated by van Dongen

THE BEST MADE PLANS

By

EVERETT B. COLE

Astounding Science Fiction

There
are some people that it is extremely unwise to cross ... and the fireworks start when two such people cross each other!

Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction, November and December, 1959. Extensive research did not reveal any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

Don Michaels twisted about uneasily for a moment, then looked toward the doors of the darkened auditorium. He shook his head, then returned his attention to the stage. Of course, he'd joined in the applause—a guy felt sort of idiotic, just sitting there while everyone else in the place made loud noises—but that comedy act had been pretty smelly. They should have groaned instead of applauding.

Oh, sure, he thought, the drama students had to have experience on the stage. And they really needed an audience—if they were going to have any realism in their performances. Sure, that part of it was all right, but why did the professionals have to join the party? Why did they have to have 'casts like that last thing—especially at a school Aud Call? It seemed anything but educational, and he'd had to skip a good class for this one. He shrugged. Of course, everyone else had skipped one class or another, he knew. So why should he be an exception? Too, some of the students would welcome and applaud anything that gave them a break from their studies. And the schedule probably took account of this sort of thing anyway. But....

A fanfare interrupted his thoughts. From the backstage speakers came the smooth rhythm of a band playing a march trio. He sat back.

The screen glowed and became a large rectangle of blue, dotted with fleecy clouds. In the distance, the towers of Oreladar poked up from a carpet of green trees.

Swiftly, the camera approached the city, to center for a moment on a large sports stadium. Players dashed across the turf, then the camera swung away. Briefly, it paused to record various city scenes, then it crossed the walls of the Palace and came to ground level on the parade grounds of the Royal Guards.

A review was underway. For a few seconds, the camera held on the massed troops, then it centered on the reviewing stand. The band modulated smoothly into a brilliant quickstep and a column of guards marched to center screen, the colors of their dress uniforms contrasting with the green of the perfectly kept field.

Now, the field of view narrowed, centering the view first on the color guard, then on the colors alone. The camera moved down till the gold and blue of Oredan's royal colors stood out against the blue sky.

The band music faded, to be over-ridden then replaced by a smooth baritone voice.

"This is your news reporter," it said, "Merle Boyce, bringing you the latest happenings of the day."

The colors receded, their background blurring then coming into focus again. Now, they stood before a large window. Again, the camera receded and a man appeared in the foreground. For a moment he sat at his plain desk, gazing directly out of the screen and seeming to look searchingly into Don's face. Then he smiled engagingly and nodded.

"As every citizen of Oredan knows," he said, "this nation has been swept by a wave of terrorism during the few days past. Indeed, the now notorious Waern affair became so serious that our Prime Minister found it necessary to take personal command of the Enforcement Corps and direct the search for the terrorists himself. Now, he is present, to bring to you, the people, his report of the conclusion of this terrible affair." He paused, drawing a breath.

"Citizen of Oredan," he declaimed slowly, "the Prime Minister, Daniel Stern, Prince Regent."

He faced away from the camera and faded from view. Again, the gold and blue of Oredan filled the screen.

There was a brief blare of trumpets. Then drums rolled and the heavy banner swept aside to reveal a tall, slender man, who approached the camera deliberately. He glanced aside for a moment, then pinned his audience with an intense stare.

"This has been a terrible experience for many of our people," he began. "And it has been a harrowing time for your public officials. One of our own—a one-time police commissioner—a man sworn to uphold law and order, has suddenly revealed himself as a prime enemy of the realm and of our people. This in itself is a bad thing. But this was not enough for Harle Waern." He held out a hand, his face growing stern.

"No, Waern was unwilling to abide by the results of a lawful trial, knowing the outcome of any full investigation into his activities, he chose to lash out further at authority and to burn his way out of detention. He killed some of his guards. He released other criminals. He formed them into a gang, enlisting their aid in cutting and burning his way across our land in an obvious effort to reach the hills and possibly stir some of the mountain clans to rebellion. And as he went, he left destruction and death." He nodded his head sadly.

"Yes, it is painful to report, but it must be admitted that no less than twenty innocent people have lost their lives as a result of Waern's actions. And many more have been injured or have suffered property loss. It has been a savage affair—one we'll be long in forgetting. And it is with considerable relief that we can report its final conclusion." He stepped back, then faded from view.

The screen brightened again to show a rambling white house which nestled in a grove of shade trees. Behind it, rose a small hill which acted as a mere step toward the peaks of high mountains beyond. Before it was a broad lawn, dotted with lounging furniture. Reflected in its windows was the glow of the rising sun, which flood-lit the entire scene. From the speakers came muted sounds. An insect chirped. Hurrying footsteps crunched on gravel. There were soft rattles and bangs, and somewhere a motor rumbled briefly, then coughed to silence.

"We are now," said a voice, "a few miles outside of the city of Riandar, where Harle Waern had this summer estate built for him."

As the announcer spoke, the camera moved about to pick out details of the estate. It showed a swimming pool back of the house. It swung briefly about landscaped gardens, scanning across cultivated fields and orchards. It flicked across a winding, tree-lined road, then came back to a rough area before the smooth lawn.

Partially concealed from the house by waving grass and field weeds, men were moving cautiously about the fields. Near a small hummock, a loudspeaker rose from its stand, to face the house. A man lay not too far from the base of the stand. Microphone in hand, he looked intently through the grass, to study the windows of the house. Then he glanced back to note the positions of the others.

The camera's viewpoint raised, to take in the entire scene beyond the field. The sky blurred, then seemed to open, to show Daniel Stern's long, thin face. He cast his eyes down for a moment, seeming to take in the details of the scene, then stared straight at the audience, his deep-set eyes glowing hypnotically.

"Here then," he said slowly, "is one of the properties which Harle Waern bought while acting as Police Commissioner of Riandar. Here is a mere sample of the gains he enjoyed for a time as the price of his defections from his oath of office. And here is the stage he chose for the final act, his last struggle against the nation he had betrayed."

His face faded from view, the deep-set eyes shining from the sky for a time after the rest of the face had faded from view.

Then the camera swung again, to show a low-slung weapons carrier which had pulled up a few dozen meters back of the man with the microphone. About it, the air shimmered a little, as though a filmy screen lay between vehicle and camera. It softened the harsh lines of the carrier and its weapon, lending them an almost mystical appearance.

The crew chief was clearly visible, however. He was making adjustments on one of the instruments on the projector mount. One of the crew members stood by on the charge rack, busying himself with adjustments on the charge activators. None of the crew looked toward the camera.

The loud-speaker clicked and rasped into life.

"Harle Waern, this is the Enforcement Corps. We know you are in there. You were seen to go into that house with your friends. You have one minute to throw out your weapons and come out with your hands in the air. This is your last chance."

There was another click from the loud-speaker. Then the scene was quiet.

Someone cleared his throat. The man with the microphone shifted his position and lay stretched out. He had sought cover behind the hummock near the speaker stand and now he raised his head cautiously, to watch the silent windows of the house. Other men lay in similar positions, their attention on the windows, their weapons ready. The windows stared blankly back.

The camera shifted back to the weapons carrier. A low voice spoke.

"Let's have a look at that scope, Walton."

A man's back moved aside and the light and dark pattern of the range detector showed on the screen. The low voice spoke again.

"Four of them," it said. "Looks as though they've got a small arsenal in there with 'em. See those bright pips?"

"Khroal?" queried another voice.

"A couple of those, yeah," the first voice said. "But that isn't too bad. Those are just antipersonnel. They've got a pair of rippers, too. Good thing we've got screens up. And there's a firebug. They could give those guys on the ground a real hard time." A finger appeared in front of the detector.

"See that haze with the lines in it?"

"Them the charges?"

"That's right. They show up like that on both scopes, see? You can always spot heat-ray charges. They look like nothing else. Only trouble is, they louse up the range scale. You can't tell——"

Don looked critically at the carrier.

There was, he thought, evidence of carelessness. No deflector screens were set up. A Moreku tribesman could put a stone from a sling in there, and really mess them up—if he could sneak in close enough. He grinned inwardly.

"Of course, if he hit the right spot, he'd go up with 'em," he told himself. "Be quite a blast."

He continued to study the weapons carrier arrangements, noting that the chargers were hot, ready for instant activation. Even the gun current was on. He could see the faint iridescence around the beam-forming elements. He shook his head.

"Hit that lens system against something right now," he muttered inaudibly, "or get something in the field, and that would be the end."

The loud-speaker clicked again and the camera swung to center the house in its field of view.

"Your time is running out, Waern." The amplified roar of the voice reverberated from the hills. "You have twenty seconds left."

Abruptly, the speaker became a blaze of almost intolerable light. The man near it rolled away hurriedly, dropping his microphone. Another man quickly picked up a handset and spoke briefly into it.

Again, the camera picked up the weapons carrier. The crew chief had his hand on his microphone switch. He nodded curtly and adjusted a dial. The lens barrel of the projector swung toward the house, stopped, swung back a trifle, and held steady.

The pointer, sitting in front of the crew chief, moved a hand and flicked a switch.

"Locked on."

The crew chief glanced over the man's shoulder, reached out to put his hand on a polished lever, and pressed. Mechanism at the rear of the long projector clicked. The faint glow over the beam formers became a blaze. A charge case dropped out and rolled into a chute. Another charge slid in to replace it and for a brief instant, a coruscating stream of almost solid light formed a bridge between house and carrier.

Then the busy click of mechanism was drowned by the crash of an explosion. A ragged mass of flame shot from the house, boiled skyward, then darkened, to be replaced by a confused blur of smoke and flying debris. The crew chief took his hand from the lever and waited.

At last, the drumroll of echoes faded to silence—the debris fell back to ground—the smoke drifted down the valley with the light breeze. And the rising sun again flooded its light over the estate.

The rambling white house, shaded by its miniature grove of trees, had gone. Charred timbers reached toward the sky from a blackened scar in the grass. On the carefully kept lawn, little red flowers bloomed, their black beds expanding as the flaming blossoms grew.

Near the charred skeleton of the house, one tree remained stubbornly upright, its bare branches hanging brokenly. About it, bright flames danced on the shattered bits of its companions.

In the fields about the house, men were getting to their feet, to stretch cramped muscles and exercise chilled limbs. A few of them started toward the ruins and the man by the speaker got to his feet to wave them back.

"Too hot to approach yet," he shouted. "We'll let a clean-up crew go over it later."

The scene faded. For an instant, the royal colors of Oredan filled the screen, then the banner folded back and Daniel Stern faced his audience, his gaze seeming to search the thoughts of those before him.

"And so," he said, "Harle Waern came to bay and elected to shoot it out with the Enforcement Corps." He moved his head from side to side.

"And with the armament he had gathered, he and his companions might even have succeeded in burning their way to the mountains, despite the cordon of officers surrounding their hide-out. He thought he could do that. But precautions had been taken. Reinforcements were called in. And such force as was needed was called into play." He sighed.

"So there's an end. An end to one case. An end to a false official, who thought he was too big for the law he had sworn to uphold." He held out a hand.

"But there still remain those who hired this man—those who paid him the price of those estates and those good things Waern enjoyed for a time. Your Enforcement Corps is searching for those men. And they will be found. Wherever they are—whoever they are—your Enforcement Corps will not rest so long as one of them remains at liberty." He stared penetratingly at the camera for a moment, then nodded and turned away.

The musical salute to the ruler sounded from the speakers as the scene faded. Once again, the green grass of the Royal Guard parade field came into view. As the color guard stood at attention, the band modulated into the "Song of the Talu."

Don Michaels got out of his seat. The Aud Call would be over in a few minutes, he knew, and he'd have to be at his post when the crowd streamed out. He moved back toward the doors, opened one a trifle, and slid through.

Some others had already come out into the hall. A few more slid out to join them, until a small group stood outside the auditorium. They examined each other casually, then scattered.

Unhurriedly, Don walked through the empty corridors, turning at a stairwell.

How, he wondered, did a man like Harle Waern get started on the wrong track? The man had been a member of one of the oldest of the noble families—had always had plenty of money—plenty of prestige. What was it that made someone like that become a criminal?

"Should've known he'd get caught sooner or later," he told himself, "even if he had no honesty about him. I don't get it."

He got to the bottom of the stairs and walked into the boy's locker room.

Between a couple of rows of lockers, a youth sat in an inconspicuously placed chair. Don went up to him.

"Hi, Darrin," he said. "About ready to pack it up?"

The other gathered his books.

"Yeah. Guess so. Nothing going on down here. Wonder why they have us hanging around this place anyway?"

Don grinned. "Guess somebody broke into a locker once and they want a witness next time. Got to have something for us Guardians to do, don't they?"

"Suppose so. But when you get almost through with your pre-professional ... hey, Michaels, how did you make out on the last exam? Looked to me as though Masterson threw us a few curves. Or did you get the same exam? Like that business about rehabilitation? It ain't in the book."

"Oh, that." Don shrugged. "He gave us the low-down on that during class last week. Suppose your group got the same lecture. You should've checked your notes."

Darrin shrugged and stood up. "Always somebody don't get the news," he grumbled. "This time, it's me. I was out for a few days. Oh, well. How was the Aud?"

Don spread his hands. "About like usual, I'd say. Oh, they had a run on the end of the Waern affair. Really fixed that bird for keeps. Otherwise?"

He waved his hands in a flapping motion.

The other grinned, then turned as a bell clanged.

There was a rumbling series of crashes, followed by a roar which echoed through the corridors. Darrin turned quickly.

"I'd better get going," he said, "before I get caught in the stampede. Should be able to sneak up the back stairs right now. See you later." He strode away.

Michaels nodded and sat down, opening a notebook.

Students commenced rushing into the locker room and the roar in the hall was almost drowned out by the continuous clash and slam of locker doors. Don paid little attention, concentrating on his notes.

At last, the noise died down and Don looked up. Except for one slender figure, crouched by an open locker, the room was empty.

Don looked at the boy curiously. He was a typical Khlorisana—olive skinned, slightly built, somewhat shorter than the average galactic. Don looked with a touch of envy at the smooth hairline, wondering why it was that the natives of this planet always seemed to have a perfect growth of head fur which never needed the attention of a barber. He rubbed his own unruly hair, then shrugged.

"Hate to change places with Pete Waern now, though," he told himself. "Wonder where he stands in this business."

Hurrying footsteps sounded in the corridor and three latecomers rushed in. As Waern straightened to close his locker door, the leader of the group crashed into him.

"Hey," he demanded, "what's the idea trying to trip me?" He paused, looking at the boy closely. "Oh, you again! Still trying to be a big man, huh?" He placed a hand on Waern's chest, pushing violently.

"Out of our way, trash."

Pete Waern staggered back, dropping his books. A notebook landed on its back and sprang open, to scatter paper over the floor. He looked at the mess for an instant.

One of the three laughed.

"That's how you show 'em, Gerry."

Pete stared angrily at his attacker.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The three advanced purposefully. One seized Pete by an arm, swinging him about violently. Another joined him and between them, they held the smaller lad firmly.

Gerry swung an open hand jarringly against Pete's face.

"Guess you're going to have to have a little lesson in how to talk to your betters," he snarled. He drew back a fist.

Don Michaels had come out of his chair. He strode over to the group, to face the attacker.

"Just exactly what do you think you're doing?" he demanded icily.

"Who do you think you are?"

Don touched a small bronze button in his lapel. "I'm one of the guys that's supposed to keep order around this place," he said. "We've got self-government in this school, remember?" He swung about to confront the two who still held Waern.

"Now, suppose you turn this guy loose and start explaining yourselves."

Gerry placed a large hand on Don's shoulder, kneading at the muscles suggestively.

"Look, little man," he said patronizingly, "you'll be a lot better off if you just mind your own business. Like watching those lockers over there so they don't fly away or something. We'll take——"

Michaels swung around slowly, then put knuckles on hips and stared at the other sternly.

"Take that hand away," he said softly. "Now get over there, and start picking up those books. Get them nice and neat." His voice rose a trifle.

"Now, I said!" He stabbed a finger out.

The boy before him hesitated, his face contorted with effort. He forced a hand part way up.

Don continued to stare at him.

The other drew a sobbing breath, then turned away and knelt by the scattered books and papers.

Don wheeled to confront the other two.

"Get over by those lockers," he ordered. "Now, let's hear it. What's your excuse for this row?"

"Aw, you saw it. You saw that little gersal trip Gerry there." The two had backed away, but now one of them started forward again.

"Come to think of it, you don't look so big to me." He half turned.

"Come on, Walt, let's——"

"Be quiet!" Michaels' gaze speared out at the speaker.

"Now, get over to those lockers. Move!" He swiveled his head to examine the boy who had picked up the books.

"Put them down there by the locker," he said coldly. "Then get yourself over there with your pals." He took a pad and pencil from his pocket, then pointed.

"All right. What's your name?"

"Walt ... Walter Kelton."

"Class group?"

"Three oh one." The boy looked worried. "Hey, what you——"

"I'll tell you all about it—later." Don scribbled on the top sheet of the pad, then tore it off. He pointed again.

"What's your name?"

"Aw, now, look. We——"

"Your name!"

"Aw ... Gerald Kelton."

"Class group?"

"Aw, same as his. We're brothers."

"What's the number of your class group?"

"Aw ... well, it's three oh one. Like I said——"

"Later! Now you. What's your name and class group?"

"Maurie VanSickle. I'm in three oh one, too."

Don finished writing, then snapped three shots of paper toward the three.

"All right. Here are your copies of the report slips. You're charged with group assault. You'll report at the self-government office before noon tomorrow. Know where it is?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we know where it is, all right," grumbled Gerry Kelton. He pointed at Pete Waern.

"How about him?"

"Never mind about that. Just get your stuff and get to your classes. And you better make it fast. Late bell's about to ring. Now get going." Don turned toward Pete Waern.

"Close your locker, fella, and come over here."

He glanced at the three retreating backs, then turned and went back to his chair. Pete hesitated an instant, then picked up his books and locked the door of his locker. Again, he hesitated, and went slowly over to stand in front of Michaels.

Don looked at him curiously.

"You ever have any trouble with those three before now?"

Pete shook his head. "Not really," he said. "Oh, one of the Keltons ... Gerry ... sneaked off the grounds a few weeks ago. I wrote him up." He grinned.

"Pushed on past me when I was on noon guard. I trailed him to his class group later and got his name."

Don nodded. "He ever say anything to you about it?"

"No. I've seen him in the halls a few times since then. He always avoided me—up to now."

"I see." Don nodded. "But today, he suddenly went for you—with reinforcements."

Pete grinned wanly. "I guess I'll have to get used to things like that," he said. "Ever since Uncle Harle was——" He clasped his hands together, then turned suddenly aside.

For an instant, he stood, head averted, then he ran over to lean against a row of lockers, facing away from Michaels.

"Uncle Harle didn't—— Oh, why don't you just leave me alone?"

Don considered him for a moment, then walked over, to place a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, hold up a minute, Chum," he said. "I'm not trying to give you a bad time. Now suppose you calm down a little. Doesn't do you a bit of good to tear yourself apart. You're not responsible for whatever your uncle got into, you know."

Pete faced him, his back braced against the lockers.

"That's what you say here," he said bitterly. "Sure, we've been in the same classes. You know me, so you try to be decent. But what do you really think? And how about everyone else? You think they're being all nice and understanding about this?" He snorted.

"Know why I'm not in class now? Got no class to go to. I was in Civics Four this period. They threw me out. Faculty advisor said I'd do better in ... in some Shop Study."

Don frowned. "Funny," he said. "You always got good grades. No trouble that way?"

"Of course not." Pete spread his hands. "I——"

A low snicker interrupted the words and Don looked around, to see Gerry Kelton close by. Behind him were his brother and Maurie. Gerry laughed derisively.

"Go ahead," he commented, "let him talk. You might learn something from the little——"

Don motioned impatiently with his head.

"Get going, you three," he said sharply. "You've got less than a minute before late bell."

"Sure we have," Gerry told him. "We might even be late to class. Now wouldn't that be awful? Some jerk wants to write up a bunch of lousy report slips, make him look good, we're——"

"Move!" Michaels' voice rose sharply. "Don't try that one on me. It's been tried before. Doesn't work."

Gerry paused in mid-stride, then seemed to deflate. He turned away.

"Come on, guys," he said. "Let's get out of here. We'll take care of this later."

As the three disappeared down the hall, Don turned back. Pete was staring at him curiously.

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Oh, you know what I mean." Pete shook his head impatiently. "Make people do things. There's only one of you and three of them. And they're all bigger than you are. Why did they just do what you told them without making a lot of trouble?"

Don shrugged, then touched the button in his lapel.

"They were in the wrong and they knew it. They've got enough trouble now. Why should they look for more?"

Pete shook his head again. "They didn't have to give their names," he said. "All you did was tell them to."

"What else could they do? After all, you know who Gerry is. So he had no out."

Pete laughed wryly. "Who'd take my word? Besides, Gerry's shoved guardians around before. He's got friends all over school. Ever hear of the 'Hunters'?"

"Who hasn't? Supposed to be some sort of gang, but I've never talked to anyone that knew much about who they are, or what they do." Don was thoughtful. "Supposed to be all galactic kids. I've heard the police are trying to break them up. Those three part of that bunch?"

Pete nodded wordlessly.

Don's eyebrows rose a little. "Prove that," he remarked, "and it won't just be the school that'll be giving them trouble. The police would probably give a lot to really get their hands on some of them."

"I'm not so sure about that," Pete told him. "It was my uncle who was interested in the Hunters. Now, it's different. Maybe the guy that went and got the proof of their membership would be the one who'd have the trouble. Real, final type trouble."

"What's that?"

"Look, I just told you. Among other things, my uncle was interested in the Hunters." Pete bent his knees and took a squatting position. His elbows rested on his knees and he relaxed, resting his chin on folded hands and looking up at Don.

"Seems as though some other people didn't like to have him asking too many questions around." He paused.

"You think my uncle was getting a lot of money from the gamblers and some smuggling combine. That right?"

"Well——" Don hesitated.

"Sure you do. So does everybody else. The galactics are telling each other about why don't they get somebody in authority besides some stupid Khlorisana. And the Khlorisanu talk about the old nobility—how they can't stop robbing the people. It all goes along with what the papers have been saying. There's been more, too, but those bribery charges are what they've really worked on. They keep telling you some of the same stuff on the newscasts. And everybody believes them. But it isn't true. My uncle was an honest policeman. They got him out of the way because he wouldn't deal with them—and maybe for...." He held out a hand.

"Figure it out. Why didn't they just give him a trial and put him into prison if he were guilty? Or, if they were going to have an execution, why not make it legal—over in Hikoran?" He paused, then waved the hand as Don started to speak.

"They didn't dare have a trial. It would be too public, and there was no real evidence. So they say he escaped. They say he slugged a guard—took his weapons. And he's supposed to have shot his way out of Khor Fortress, after releasing some other prisoners. They say he forced his way clear from Hikoran to the Doer valley." He laughed bitterly.

"Did you ever see Khor Fortress?

"And you should have seen my uncle. He was a little, old man. He'd stand less chance of beating up some guard and taking his weapons than I would have of knocking out all three of those fellows a few minutes ago." Again, he paused, looking at Don searchingly.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this, unless maybe I better tell someone while I'm still around to talk," he added.

"Now wait." Don shook his head. "Aren't you making——"

"A great, big thing? No." Pete shook his head decidedly. "I've talked to my uncle. I've heard my uncle and father talk about things. And ... well, maybe I've gotten mixed up in things a little, too. Maybe I'm really mixed up in things, and maybe——" He stopped talking suddenly and got to his feet.

"No, my uncle didn't escape. That whole affair was staged, so they wouldn't have to bring him to trial. Too many things would have come out, and they could never make a really legal case. This way ... this way, he can't talk. No one can defend him now, and no one will ask too many questions." He turned away.

"Oh, listen." Don was impatient. "That flight developed into a national affair. All kinds of witnesses. It was spread out all over the map. People got killed. Who could set up something like that and make it look genuine?"

Pete didn't look around.

"Look who got killed. A lot of old-line royalists," he said shortly. "And some of the Waernu. You think my uncle would kill his own clansmen?" He expelled an explosive breath.

"And there's one man who could set up something like that. He doesn't like the old royalists very well, either. And he hates the Waernu. Think it over." He walked quickly out of the room.

Don looked after him for a few seconds, then sat down and fixed an unseeing gaze on the far wall of the locker room.

"Gaah!" he told himself, "the kid really pulled the door open. Wonder why he picked me?"

Come to think of it, he wondered, why was it people seemed to tell him things they never mentioned to anyone else? And why was it they seemed to get a sort of paralysis when he barked at them? He scratched an ear. He couldn't remember the time when the ranch hands hadn't jumped to do what he wanted—if he really wanted it. The only person who seemed to be immune was Dad. He grinned.

"Imagine anyone trying to get the Old Man into a dither—and getting away with it."

He laughed and looked at the wall for a few more seconds, then opened a book.

"Wonder," he said to himself. "Seems as though anyone should be able to do it—if they were sure they were right." Then he shook his head. "Only one trouble with that idea," he added. "They don't." He shrugged and turned his attention to the book in his hands.

The click of heels on the flooring finally caused him to look up. He examined the new arrival, then smiled.

"Oh, hello, Jack."

"Hi, Don." The other looked at the array of books. "You look busy enough. Catching up on your skull-work?"

"Yeah. Guy has to study once in a while, just to pass the time away. Besides, this way, the prof doesn't have to spend so much money on red pencils."

"Yeah, sure." Jack Bordelle grinned. "Be terrible if he went broke buying red leads. I go to a lot of trouble myself to keep that from happening." He paused, looked sideways at Don, then rubbed his cheek.

"Speaking of trouble, I hear you had a little scrape here at the beginning of the period."

"That right? Where'd you get that word?"

"Seems as though Gerry Kelton didn't make it to class in time. Teacher ran him out for a late slip and he got me to write him up. He's pretty sore."

Don frowned. "Funny he'd need a late slip. He already had a write-up." He shrugged. "Oh, well. I should get excited about making some of the lower school crowd sore?"

Bordelle lifted one shoulder. "Well, Michaels, you know your own business, I guess, but Kelton's got a lot of friends around, they tell me."

"Yeah. I've heard." Don looked steadily at the other.

"And, well——" Bordelle examined the toes of his shoes carefully. "Well, maybe you ought to think it over about turning in those slips you wrote up, huh?"

"Think so?"

"Well, I would." Bordelle looked up, then down again. "You know, I've known a few guys, crossed the Keltons. Right away, they found themselves all tangled up with the Hunters. Makes things a little rugged, you know?"

"A little rugged, huh?"

"Yeah." Bordelle spread his hands. "Look, Michaels, I've got nothing in this one. It's just ... well, I've known you for a few years now—ever since Lower School. Been in some classes with you. And you seem like a pretty decent, sensible guy. Hate to see you walk into a jam, see? Especially over some native kid with a stinking family record." He paused.

"Of course, it's your own business, but if it were me, I'd tear up those slips, you know?"

"Easy to tear up slips. Only one trouble. They're numbered. How would you explain the missing numbers?"

"Well, guys lose books now and then, remember? Maybe they wouldn't holler too loud."

Don smiled. "I knew a guy once that lost a book. They took it pretty hard. Got real rough about it."

Bordelle shrugged. "Yeah. But maybe Al Wells might not be so rough about it this time, huh? He might just sort of forget it, if you told him you just sort of ... well, maybe you were checking the incinerator on your way to the office, and the book slipped out of your pocket—you know?"

"You think it could happen that way?"

"It could—easy."

Don stood up.

"Tell you," he said, "I might lose a book some day. But they don't come big enough to make me throw one away." He picked up his books and put them under his arm.

"I'm going to turn those slips in tonight. Maybe you'd better turn in the one you wrote up, too. Then nobody'll get burned for losing a book."

"I always thought you were a pretty sensible guy, Michaels." Bordelle shook his head. "After all, you stopped that beef. Nobody got hurt, and you've got nothing to prove about yourself. Know what I mean? So why the big, high nose all at once?"

A bell clanged and the crash and roar of students dashing about echoed through the halls. Don shrugged carelessly.

"Oh, I don't know. Can't even explain it to myself. Maybe I just don't like people pushing other people around. Maybe I don't like to be threatened. Maybe I've even got bit by some of those principles Masterson's always talking about. I don't know." He turned away.

"Well, this is the end of my school day. See you."

Bordelle looked after him.

"Yeah," he said softly. "It's the end of your day all right. Better look out it doesn't turn out to be the end of all your days."

Don glanced down at his textbook, then looked out the window. A blanket of dark clouds obscured the sky. Light rain filtered coldly down, to diffuse the greenery of the school grounds, turning the scene outside into a textured pattern of greens, dotted here and there with a reddish blur. To the west, the mist completely hid the distant mountains.

It would be cold outside—probably down around sixteen degrees or so. It had dropped to fifteen this morning, and unless the weather cleared up, there'd be no point in going up to the hills this weekend. The Korental and his clan would be huddled in their huts, waiting for warmer weather. A wild Ghar hunt would be the last thing they'd be interested in. Besides, the Gharu would be——

He jerked his attention back to the classroom. A student was reciting.

"... And ... uh, that way, everything was all mixed up with the taxes and the government couldn't get enough money. So King Weronar knew he'd have to get someone to help un ... straighten the taxes out, so he ... uh, well, Daniel Stern had been in the country for a couple of years, and he had ... well, sort of advised. So the king——"

Don looked out the window again.

With this weather, the ranch would be quiet. Hands would be all in the bunkhouses, crowding around the stoves. Oh, well, he and Dad could fool around down in the range. Since Mom had—— He jerked his head around to face the instructor.

Mr. Barnes was looking at him.

"Um-m-m, yes. That's good, Mara," he said. "Michaels, suppose you go on from there."

Don glanced across at the student who had just finished her recitation, but she merely gave him a blankly unfriendly stare. He looked back at the instructor.

"I lost the last few sentences," he admitted. "Sorry."

Barnes smiled sardonically. "Well, there's an honest admission," he said. "What's the last you picked up?"

Don shrugged resignedly.

"The appointment of Daniel Stern as Minister of Finance," he said. "That would be in eight twelve."

"You didn't miss too much." Barnes nodded. "You just got a little ahead. Take it from there."

"After a few months, the financial affairs of the kingdom began to improve," Don commenced.

"By the middle of eight thirteen, the tax reforms were in full effect. There was strong opposition to the elimination of the old system—both from the old nobility, who had profited by it, and from some of the colonists. But an Enforcement Corps was formed to see that the new taxes were properly administered and promptly paid. And the kingdom became financially stable." He paused.

Actually, he realized with a start, it had been Stern who had founded and trained the Enforcement Corps—first to enforce the revenue taxes, and later as a sort of national police force. And it had always been Stern who had controlled the Enforcement Corps. It was almost a private army, in fact. Maybe Pete—— He continued his recitation.

"Then Prime Minister Delon died rather ... rather suddenly, and the king appointed Mr. Stern to the vacancy. And when King Weronar himself died a little more than four years ago, Prime Minister Stern was acclaimed as prince regent." Don paused thoughtfully.

Delon's death had been sudden—and a little suspicious. But no one had questioned Stern or any of his people about it. And the death of the king and queen themselves—now there was.... Again, he got back to his recitation.

"There was opposition to Mr. Stern's confirmation as Regent, of course, since he was a galactic and not native to the planet. But he was the prime minister, and therefore the logical person to take the reins." He frowned.

"The claims to the throne were—and still are—pretty muddled. No one of the claimants supported by the major tribes is clearly first in line for the throne, and no compromise has been reached." The frown deepened.

"Traditionally," he went on, "the Star Throne should never be vacant for more than five years. So we can expect to see a full conclave of the tribes within a few months, to choose among the claimants and select one to be either head of the clan Onar, or the founder of a new royal line."

Barnes nodded. "Yes, that's fairly clear. But we must remember, of course, that the tradition you mention is no truly binding law or custom. It's merely a superstitious belief, held to by some of the older people, and based on ... well——" He smiled faintly.

"Actually, under the present circumstances, with no claimant clearly in line, and with the heraldic branch still sifting records, it is far more practical and sensible to recognize the need for a continued regency." He took a step back and propped himself against his desk.

"In any event, most of the claimants of record are too young for independent rule, so the regency will be forced to carry on for some time."

He looked for a fleeting instant at the inconspicuous monitor speaker on the wall.

"As matters stand now, the tribes might find it impossible to decide on any of the claimants. As you said, there is no truly clear line. King Weronar died childless, you remember, and his queen didn't designate a foster son." He shrugged.

"Well, we shall see," he added. "Now, suppose we go back a little, Michaels. You said there was some opposition from the colonists to the tax reforms of eight twelve. Can you go a little more into detail on that?"

Don touched his face. He'd been afraid of that. Somehow, neither the book nor the lectures really jibed with some of the things he'd heard his father talk about. Something about the whole situation just didn't make full sense. He shrugged mentally. Well....

The door opened and a student runner came into the room. Don watched him walk up to Mr. Barnes with some relief. Maybe, after the interruption, someone else would be picked to carry on.

The youngster came to the desk and handed a slip to the instructor, who read it, then looked up.

"Michaels," he said, "you seem to have some business at the self-government office. You may be excused to take care of it."

Al Wells looked up as Don entered the office.

"What's the—— Oh, Michaels. Got some questions for you on that row you stopped in the locker room yesterday."

"Oh? I thought my write-up was pretty clear. What's up?"

The self-government chairman leaned back.

"You said this Gerry Kelton banged into this kid, Waern, started pushing him around, and struck him once. That right?"

Don nodded. "That's about what happened, yes."

"And there was no provocation?"

"None that I saw."

"And you saw the whole affair?"

"Everything that happened in the locker room. Yes."

"Uh huh. And you said that two guys, Walt Kelton and Maurie VanSickle, pinned this kid's arms while Gerry started to slug him. That it?"

Don smiled. "He only got in one slap before I mixed in," he said. "Had his fist all cocked for more, though."

Wells nodded, looking curiously at Don.

"But they quit and turned the kid loose when you told them to?"

"That's right."

"Didn't give you any trouble?"

"No." Don shook his head. "Just some talk. Gave their names and class numbers. Oh, yeah, they squawked a little, sure. Then they took off for class."

Wells looked at Michaels appraisingly.

"Know anything about this Gerry Kelton?"

Don shook his head. "Heard a rumor or so last night," he admitted. "Never heard of him before then."

Wells laughed shortly. "We have. He's only got one year in this school, but we've had him in here several times. Know him pretty well by now. He got set back quite a bit in Primary, so he's some older than most of the Lower School bunch." He waved a hand.

"Oh, he's a brawler. We know that. But he doesn't start fights. He finishes them."

"He started this one."

"That right? And he quit when you told him to?"

"He did."

"Oh, no. That's not the Kelton. Last guy tried to stop him was out of classes for three days. Took five guys to bring Kelton in here." Wells shook his head.

"Look, we got him in here and he told us his story. The other two came up with the same thing later. Makes sense, too—if you know Kelton. It seems he and his brother ran into this kid, Waern, outside the auditorium right after Aud Call. They were talking about the newscast. And this kid came up and started an argument. Tried to slap Walt. They pushed him off and went on their way. VanSickle went with them. He'd been in the crowd." Wells leaned forward.

"Got four witnesses to that, too, beside the three of them."

Don moved his head indifferently. "I wouldn't know about that. I wasn't there. All I know is what I saw in the locker room."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. Then, they say they went on down to the locker room, after talking to some other students. When they got there, the Waern kid came flying at them again. Tried to bite and kick. They say you helped Maurie pull him off Gerry, and told 'em you'd take it from there. So they went on to class. They can't figure out where you got the idea of writing them up over it. Didn't know they'd been written up till we sent some guys up and pulled them out of their classes." Wells flipped his hands out, palms upward.

"So there's their story. How about it?"

Don shook his head. "Pretty well worked out. Fits the situation, too. Only one trouble. There's almost no truth in it. Pete Waern made no effort to hit any of those three while I was watching. And I didn't touch any of the four myself."

Wells laughed shortly. "That's what you're telling me. I've got a batch of statements telling the other story."

Don looked at the other for a moment. "Now wait a minute," he said slowly. "Are you trying to tell me what I saw and did?"

Wells shook his head. "Just trying to fill you in. This isn't my problem any more. Dr. Rayson's picked it up. Wants to see you. He's got Mr. Masterson with him and they're waiting for you to show up so they can talk things over with you." He tilted his head.

"I don't know. I've heard about some funny things these Khlorisanu can pull off if they can get a guy's attention for a while. And that kid's the real thing—from way back. Better think things over a little, maybe. See if you can remember any dizzy spells or anything."

"Oh, now check your synchs, Wells." Don waggled his head disgustedly. "I've heard those yarns too—down here. Look. All my life, I've been living on a ranch out in the mountains. Got Khlorisanu all over the place. They work for us up there." He grinned.

"Isn't a thing they can do that you and I can't do, too. They've got no special powers, believe me. I know."

"You'd find it pretty hard to tell that one to Doc Rayson and make it stick," Wells told him. "And he's the guy you've got to talk to." He reached into a basket on his desk and took out a stack of papers.

"Look, I've told you more'n I was supposed to all ready. Suppose you go over and talk to them for a while. They're waiting for you over in room Five."

Don looked at him for a moment, then went out.

He swung about and examined the closed door thoughtfully, then massaged the back of his neck.

"What's wrong with these people?" he asked himself. "Don't they know how to break down a rigged story? Or can't they recognize one when they hear it?"

He crossed the hall.

"I'm Donald Michaels," he told the secretary. "I believe Dr. Rayson wants to see me."

The woman looked at him curiously.

"Oh, yes," she said. "Just a minute."

She got up and went into an inner room. After a moment, she came out and reclaimed her seat behind her desk.

"He's busy right now," she said. "I'll let you know when you can go in."

Don shrugged and sat down in one of the chairs that lined the wall. It wasn't a very comfortable chair.

"The anxious seat," he growled to himself. "Nice, time-tested trick."

There was no reading material at hand, and the walls of the oddly shaped room were blank. He amused himself by directing a blank stare toward the secretary. After a few minutes, she looked up from her work and jerked her head indignantly.

"Stop that," she ordered.

"Stop what?" Don looked innocent.

"Stop staring at me like that."

"Not staring at you," he told her. "I have to look somewhere and the chair faces your way. That's all."

The woman moved her hands. "Well, then face some other way."

"But I'd have to move the chair, and that would disturb your arrangements," Don told her reasonably. He continued his blank stare.

The woman resumed her work, then twitched her shoulders and looked at him resentfully for a few seconds. Finally, she got up and went to the inner office again. Don waited.

Again, she came out.

"They'll see you now," she said.

Don got up.

"Thank you."

He went through the door.

To his right, a man sat behind a wide, highly polished desk. The other was across the room, at a smaller desk. Both looked up as the door opened.

The man to Don's right nodded pleasantly.

"Well, so you're Donald Michaels? I'm Dr. Rayson."

"Yes, sir."

"That's good. Sit down." Rayson waved. "Right over there." He smiled confidently.

"Ah, that's fine. I'm the school psychologist, you know. You have met Mr. Masterson, the self-government faculty advisor, of course?"

Don nodded. "Of course. I'm in one of his classes."

"Well, that's good. Now, how do you feel this morning?"

"Quite well, thank you, sir."

"Well, then, we can talk about that little affair in the locker room, can't we? Your memory is clear on it by now, isn't it?"

Don nodded.

"Well, that's fine. Now, suppose you give us the whole story. Don't leave out a thing. Then, we'll see what we can do for you."

Don smiled thinly, then flicked out a finger.

"I think that paper on your desk, sir, is the report I wrote last night. It's complete as it stands."

Masterson broke in, frowning. "We don't mean that thing," he said coldly. "What we want is a true, complete account of what actually happened."

Don faced him, his face tightening a little.

"Dr. Rayson has just that, sir," he said. "On his desk. I wrote it. I signed it."

Rayson raised a hand slightly.

"Just a moment," he said reprovingly. "There's no need for excitement or anger here. We're simply looking for a full, correct account." He cleared his throat. "Perhaps it would be well for me to make things clearer to you. Then, you'll recognize the problem." He looked down at the paper on the desk.

"You see, Donald," he continued, "we have already talked to a number of other students about this. And we have a complete account of the incident in so far as it concerned Petoen Waern." He smiled indulgently.

"What we are now concerned about is your own well-being. We need to know something of what happened to you after you were alone with the Waern boy." He spread his hands, then held them out, palms up.

"As to the actual physical action, that's quite simple. You see, there were a number of witnesses to the affair, and most of them have come forward." He rubbed his hands together, then laid them on the desk.

"So, we know precisely what happened that far.

"And we have a pretty good idea of what happened to you later, of course. This sort of thing has happened before. But by this time, you should have had time to recover to a great extent. At least, you should remember things much more clearly than you did when you wrote this report last night." He touched the paper with a smile.

"And with a little prompting and information, you should be able to fully recover your memory."

The smile became sympathetic. "Of course, I can understand your present confusion and your complete disbelief in your change of orientation. And I know it's quite an effort for a young man to admit he's been ... well ... shall we say influenced? But believe me, it's no disgrace. It's happened to quite a few others before you." He nodded thoughtfully.

"In fact, we are beginning to believe this Petoen Waern, like his uncle, is something of an adept at this sort of thing."

Don looked at him steadily.

"Do I act as though I were in a trance, sir?"

"Oh no. No, of course not. This sort of thing doesn't result in such a manifestation. This is something much more subtle than mere, gross hypnotism." Rayson smiled.

"However, you've had all night to partially recover. And these things seldom are fully effective for more than a few hours—unless the operator can get to his victim again, to fully fix the impression he has created."

Rayson placed the palms of his hands together. "No, by this time, one would expect your memories to be somewhat confused. So we can apply therapeutic methods." He nodded.

"Now go ahead. Try running through the whole story. Perhaps we can get a clue as to his methods. And if you have any ill effects remaining, I think they can be quite easily eliminated. Now, suppose you start with the time immediately after young Waern's attack on the Kelton boy."

Don shook his head wearily. "There was no such attack," he said. "It was the other way around. A large sized chap who later gave his name to me as Gerry Kelton, slapped a smaller fellow named Waern. At the time, two other fellows were holding Waern's arms. Rather tightly, too."

Masterson interrupted, shaking his head disgustedly. "We've got plenty of statements from witnesses. That isn't the way they read. Now how about it?"

"You mean the two Keltons and VanSickle?"

"No." Masterson was definite. "No. I don't mean them. There were several students around the doorway into that locker room during that entire show. We got stories from most of them." He waved a hand decisively.

"Now suppose you start using your head. Get busy and give us the thing the way it really happened. Then, we'll see what to do about you."

Don shook his head. "The locker room and the hall were empty for at least a full minute before those three came in," he said. "If you go over the people that signed those statements, you'll probably find that they were somewhere else at the time." He grinned.

"And from what I hear, this might give you an idea as to the membership of the Hunters, too."

"Hunters!" Masterson looked completely disgusted. "We've checked out a hundred crazy rumors about that alleged gang. Nothing there."

"Maybe so." Don looked at him critically. "But Jack Bordelle certainly sounded convinced last night. And how about Pete Waern? Didn't he tell you his side of this thing?"

"Ah yes, Waern." Dr. Rayson chuckled. "I believe these 'Hunters' are an invention of his uncle's. No, that young man didn't come in. His father is too smart for that. We won't see that young man again, unless we can have him brought in for this bit of work he did on you."

Don turned his head to stare across the desk.

Rayson smiled knowingly. "Oh, yes. Jasu Waern called early this morning. He said he was withdrawing Petoen from school. Said he planned to send him to a private school where he wouldn't be subject to indignities." He chuckled again.

"Jasu Waern is altogether too smart a man to let us question that youngster of his if he can prevent it." He looked searchingly at Don.

"You know," he added musingly, "I'm beginning to wonder about you, though. This might be serious. Possibly this Waern boy was more thorough than we thought possible. Possibly permanent damage could have been done." He got to his feet.

"Suppose you go over to that couch there and lie down. We'll try a little therapy, and see what we can do for you."

Michaels looked at him indignantly.

"I'm getting a little tired of all these tales about mental influence by the Khlorisanu. They're pure myth and I know it. I've lived all my life among these people. Believe me, if there were any such thing, my father or I would have come across it before now. And we'd know about it."

"You are then, ah, presenting yourself as an authority on parapsychology, perhaps?" Rayson pursed his lips. "This is a great accomplishment for one so young."

"I'm not an authority on anything." Don shook his head. "All I know is that I'd find it out right away if anyone tried anything like that on me. No one has—at least no Khlorisana has."

Rayson shook his head reprovingly. "Now, you say you have lived all your life among these people? Perhaps, then, you have been under——"

"Just a minute!" Masterson broke in sharply. "What's this about Jack Bordelle? He's your relief, isn't he, Michaels?"

"That's right." Don shrugged, then repeated his conversation with Bordelle. He smiled wryly as he finished.

"I'll have to admit," he added, "I did walk over and spend a few seconds checking the incinerator, at that. But ... oh, well." He waved at the paper on Rayson's desk.

"And you didn't put that in your report?"

"No, sir. I didn't think there was any place for it there."

"Why not?"

"It wasn't material to the case in hand, sir. There was no evidence in Jack's comments. He made no threats or offers. And as far as I could tell, he was merely a disinterested person concerned in my welfare. Even though he seemed to believe what he was saying, it's pure hearsay."

"Hearsay!" Masterson snorted. "Pure invention." He leaned forward.

"Look," he said sharply, "we've been pretty patient with you. We've given you the benefit of every doubt we could think of. And we're getting to the time-wasting stage." He waved a hand sharply across in front of his body.

"Now, I'd like to get some truth out of you. You've told us a little truth already. I believe you when you say you weren't subjected to any mental influence. I think the influence was very material indeed—in nice, purple ink—and it seems to have been pretty effective. How much was it?"

"How much?" Don frowned. "I wish you'd make yourself clear on that. What are you trying to say?"

"Just what you think I said," snapped Masterson. "How much did that youngster offer you to write up that incident the way you did? And have you the cash in hand yet?"

Don looked at the man carefully, noting the details of his appearance. Finally, he shook his head.

"Mr. Masterson," he said slowly, "up to now, I've always thought you were a good instructor and a fine advisor. I've sat in your classes, and I even developed a lot of respect for you. All at once, you've shown me how wrong I could be." He held up a hand.

"Be quiet," he said sharply, "both of you. And listen carefully. I want to make myself fully understood. I want to drive one thought into your stupid heads. You're in the wrong part of the galaxy for such remarks as that one you just made." He touched the corner of his mouth, then looked at his fingers.

"You see, this is at the edge of the Morek. There are Moreku here, in this school. And some day, you might talk to one of them." He smiled thinly.

"I am the only son of a border rancher, Mr. Masterson. We have a few thousand square kilos up in the Morek area, in the hills. And I have worked and played with mountain tribesmen all my life." He drew a long breath.

"Had a few fights with some of them, too. And some of their customs and a lot of their moral values rubbed off on me, I guess, though I've never been adopted into any clan.

"You just made a remark that is the absolute last word in insults up in the Morek. Nothing you could do or say could be worse. And there are, as I said, others from that area right here, in this school. Real clan members." He laughed shortly.

"Mister, what you said was, 'you sell yourself.'" He reached up to his lapel, twisting at the bronze button.

"If you should say that to a tribesman, your life would be over. Right then, unless you were very quick. And if you should be quick enough, or lucky enough, to kill the man you insulted, his clan brothers would take it up. It would be either you—or the whole tribe." He stood up.

"I'm not a tribesman. I don't carry the sling, and I'm of galactic ancestry, so I don't have a compulsion toward blood vengeance. But I don't accept that insult. I shall go back to the Morek today and place you out of my mind." He paused.

"No, I won't kill you. I'll simply warn you so you'll have no excuse for such idiocy again." He smiled.

"You know, Mr. Masterson, I don't know how much they pay you by the year to sit around here, but I doubt that it's as much as I pay my beaters for a week end of hunting. So obviously, even if I were for sale, the man who could afford the tab could pick you up with his small change." He paused thoughtfully.

"Come to think of it, if your annual pay is more than my beaters get, I'll have to raise their wages. They do their job—intelligently."

He turned, then swung back for an instant. The bronze button had come out of his lapel. He tossed it on Masterson's desk.

"Here," he said. "A present for you. I can't stand the smell of it."

Dully, the two men sat, watching the closed door. At long last, Rayson turned his head with obvious effort, to stare at Masterson, who recovered a few milliseconds more slowly.

But Masterson's recovery was the more violent of the two. He stared blankly at Rayson for an instant, then sprang to his feet.

"Why that young...! I'll turn him every way but loose."

He sprang around his desk and took a stride toward the door.

"No, no." Rayson raised a hand warningly. "This is no way to handle such a matter." He smiled gently.

"After all, this young man succeeded in immobilizing both of us for a considerable time. In the first place, I doubt you'd be able to catch him. In the second, do you think he would stand still while you mauled him by yourself?"

Masterson turned around, frowning. "He caught me unprepared," he snarled. "He can't do that to me again. Not while I'm ready for him."

"No? I think he could. Any time, any place, and under almost any conditions. And I have much more experience in these matters than you, my friend. This is a very dangerous young man, and he requires special handling. Sit down and let us consider this young man."

Masterson growled impatiently, but returned to his desk. He sat down, glowering at his companion.

"Suppose you tell me what you're talking about," he demanded.

Rayson looked down at his hands, which rested on the desk.

"We have been talking about mental influence, I believe. In fact, we mentioned this very matter to our young friend. This is correct?"

"Sure we did. So?"

"And our young man was quite positive that he could never be so controlled and that any effort to do so would be immediately apparent to him. This is also correct, I believe?"

"That's about the way of it, yes. What are you driving at?"

Rayson sighed. "Let me remind you of something, then. You are, of course; of the Ministerial Investigative Force, just as I am. But our specialties are different. Your dealings are with the teaching and preparation of youth for useful citizenship, and with the prevention of certain gross misbehavior. Thus, you deal with those more obvious and material deviations from the socially acceptable and have little experience with the more dangerous and even less acceptable deviations with which I must concern myself." He smiled faintly.

"Your handling of this young man just now would indicate a quite complete lack of understanding of the specialty I have prepared myself for. And even if there were no other reasons, it would serve to point up the reason for our difference in relative rank. You must admit you got something less than desirable results." He cleared his throat and looked disapprovingly at Masterson.

"Of course, you are familiar with stories of mental influence. And I have no doubt that you have had some experience with this type of thing, even though it is not in your direct line of work."

Masterson shook his head. "Sorry," he admitted. "This is the first time anyone's ever pulled anything like that on me."

Rayson inclined his head slowly. "So," he said softly. "Your lack of caution and discretion is more understandable, then. You have been quite fortunate, I should say. Of course, extreme individualism is far from common now, and persons who combine extreme individualism with high empathic power are rare, but they do appear. And they are dangerous in the highest degree." He spread his hands.

"A fully developed person of this type could do almost as he pleased and there would be no one who would be able to deny him or even check his course. You can see what I mean, surely?"

Masterson stared contemplatively into space. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I think I get the idea. A person like that could demand almost anything from almost anyone—and get it. But how would you go about it to restrain one of those people?"

"It can lead to difficulties." Rayson smiled reminiscently. "I can remember cases where——" He frowned.

"But no matter. We seldom allow them to reach high development. Very often, they betray themselves in little ways and we discover them quite early. We are then able to take care of them before they can do serious harm. Some, even, we are able to ... ah ... reorient, so that they become normal, useful subjects of the realm. But sometimes ... well, we have to call upon the Guard and get heavy weapons. Complete elimination becomes necessary." He frowned.

"And sometimes, like our young friend, they gain considerable power which they manage to conceal, and only betray themselves when under stress. Then, they become dangerous in the extreme. And there is no really legal way in which they can be handled, since they haven't yet committed any overt act of violence." He shook his head.

"No, this young man will require quite special handling. He will have to be carefully watched, and will probably get to the stage where complete elimination is demanded. I shall set the process in motion immediately." He reached for the telephone on his desk.

Masterson looked at him thoughtfully.

"You say these people are pretty rare, and really dangerous?"

"Yes. To both questions, definitely yes."

"Well, then, I should think that anyone who managed to organize and direct the elimination of one of them would be likely to get quite a bit of credit. Might even lead to a good promotion."

Rayson took his hand from the telephone.

"This is true," he admitted. "You are thinking of——?"

Masterson nodded. "Why don't we pick up a few people and run this operation ourselves?" he asked.

Rayson shook his head. "The idea is excellent," he agreed. "But I really see no reason for a joint effort." He got to his feet.

"After all, you must admit the total implication of this matter was my discovery. I had to explain it to you. And thus, I can see no reason for making a full partnership of the matter." He raised a hand.

"Of course, you will receive credit in the matter," he added quickly, "and you might even find yourself advanced. But I shall have to insist on taking the final steps and directing the operation personally." He smiled coldly.

"I can consult with certain of my colleagues and get the necessary support. And when I have left, you may get in touch with your superiors and report the matter, telling them that action is being initiated. This way, we will both receive our due credit." He paused.

"Oh, yes," he added, "and you might interview this young Kelton again, with his companions. Thus, you will gather evidence for use in justifying my operations."

Masterson looked at him unhappily. "Well ... all right," he agreed reluctantly. "Rank has its privileges, I suppose. And I guess in this case, that includes the collection of more rank. Suppose I'd better take what I can get."

"To be sure." Rayson smiled at him benignly. "This way, you are sure of profiting. Otherwise, you might run into disaster." He rose and strode toward the door.

"You may get those boys in for interview as soon as I leave," he said. "From them, you can get sufficient evidence of these powers of your young friend. Ah ... and I would suggest that you use a little more discretion with them than you showed with this young Michaels of ours. You were a trifle—shall we say, crude?" He coughed.

"Then you may call in and advise Headquarters that evidence has been gathered and action is being taken in this case of Donald Michaels."

He turned and went out the door.

Masterson watched as the door closed, then reached into the back of a desk drawer. He took out a small box with a number of switches mounted on its top. For a moment, he examined the object, then he got to his feet and went to the window.

He stood, looking out of the window for a few moments, nodded, and let his fingers play among the switches. Finally, he nodded in satisfaction and went back to his desk.

He looked contemplatively at the telephone for a moment, then picked it up and started flipping at the dial.

The sports flier dropped free for the last few feet, bounced, tilted, and finally righted itself. It was not a very good landing.

Don snapped the switch off and sat for a moment, looking out at the long, low house. Then he let himself out of the flier and walked across the courtyard and through the door.

The front room was empty. He looked over at the wide glass panels that formed one side of the room. A small, dark man came from between the bushes of the inner garden. He slid a panel aside and looked expressionlessly at Don for a moment. Then he slowly allowed his head to drop.

"Master Donald," he said. He raised his head, looking at Don with brilliant yellow eyes. "Your father did not expect you until two days."

"I know, Dowro. But I came home early. I want to talk to him."

"It is well." The man motioned toward a curtained arch. "He is below."

"Thanks, Dowro. I'll find him." Don swept the curtains aside and turned, to open a heavy door.

As he started down the steep flight of stairs, a sharp crack came from the basement. He grinned. With this kind of weather, the range would be busy.

Kent Michaels stood on the plastic flooring, a rifle at his shoulder. The front sight weaved almost imperceptibly, then steadied. He seemed completely unaware of his son's presence.

Suddenly, a spurt of smoke came from the muzzle of the rifle. There was another sharp crack and the muzzle swept upward then dropped, to become steady again.

At last, the shooter took the weapon from his shoulder and opened the action. He looked around.

"Oh, Don," he said. "Didn't expect you for a couple of days. There's no holiday down there right now, is there?"

Don shook his head. "I made a new one," he said. "Permanent type."

His father bent over the rifle action, examining it. Then he stepped over to place the weapon in a rack. Finally, he turned, to look searchingly at his son.

"Permanent?"

"Afraid so, Dad. I guess I sort of blew up."

"Want to tell me about it?"

The older man motioned Don to a camp stool and pulled one over for himself. As Don talked, he listened intently. At last, he nodded.

"So that's all of that, eh?"

"Guess it is, Dad. Looks as though I'll have to start working for my keep. Won't be any police official in the family after all."

"Could be." Kent Michaels got up and reached out to the weapons rack.

"Got one more shot on this target. Then we'll talk it over, hm-m-mm?"

He stepped up to a line inlaid in the floor. Deliberately, he placed a cartridge in the rifle and closed the action. Then, he raised the weapon, seated it on his shoulder, and brought it into position with a twisting motion.

Don watched, smiling in spite of himself, as the front sight rose and fell with his father's breathing. That routine never changed. From the time the Old Man picked up his weapon till he laid it down, you could predict every move he'd make.

The motion stopped and for endless seconds, the man stood motionless, the muzzle of his rifle probing steadily toward the lighted space downrange. Then the front sight jumped upward, settled back, and steadied again.

"Looked good." Kent Michaels let the weapon down, opened the action and checked it, then racked the weapon. He touched a button near the firing line and waited for the target to come in to him.

Deliberately, he unclipped the sheet of paper, laid it down, and clipped another in its place. He touched another button, then picked up the fired target and bent over it, checking his score. Finally, he looked up.

"Ninety-seven," he said. "Four X's. Think you can beat it?" He walked back to the rack and picked out a rifle. After glancing into the action, he held it out toward Don.

"Zero hasn't been changed since you fired it last. Want to take a couple of free ones anyway, just to be sure?"

Don looked at him indignantly.

"Good grief, Dad," he objected. "This is no time for a rifle match."

"Good as any, I'd say," his father told him. "Go ahead. There's a block of ammo at the point. Take your time, but you'll have to make 'em good." He sat down on his camp stool and waited.

Don looked at him for a few seconds, then shook his head resignedly and stepped up to the line.

"Oh, well," he said. "I'll try. Never mind the zero rounds."

He loaded the rifle and brought it to his shoulder. The sight weaved and bobbed. He brought it down again and looked back at his father. The older man pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket.

"Go ahead," he said calmly. "Take a few deep breaths. And relax."

Don bowed his shoulders and let the rifle hang loosely from his outstretched arms. He looked downrange, trying to drive everything out of his mind but the target hanging down there. Finally, he raised the weapon again. The sight bobbed about, then steadied. He put pressure on the trigger, then growled softly as the weapon fired.

"Oh, no! Drifted off at three o'clock."

His father exhaled a small cloud of smoke and said nothing. Don looked at him unhappily for a moment, then reloaded and brought the rifle up again.

Finally, the tenth shot smacked against the backstop and he racked his weapon and punched at the target return button.

His father got up and unclipped the sheet.

"Well, let's see," he said. "Eight, nine, nine ... here's a nipper ten ... nine ... oh, me! You didn't do so well, did you?"

"What would you expect?" grumbled Don. "Give me a couple of hours to simmer down and I'll take you on. Beat you, too."

"Suppose you got into a fight, Don?" his father asked. "Think the guy'd give you a couple hours to simmer down? So you could maybe shoot his eye out?"

He turned and led the way to a couple of lounge chairs.

"Sit down," he advised. "And turn on that light, will you?" He leaned back.

"So you gave Andy Masterson a fast outline on manners, eh?" He laughed softly. "Boy, I'd like to have seen his face about then!"

Don jerked his head around. "You know him, Dad?"

"You could say I did once," his father answered. "We went through Guard training together. Served on the same base a few times. Some years ago, I retired. I'm pretty sure he didn't."

Don pushed himself out of the chair and stood in front of his father.

"You mean Mr. Masterson is——"

Kent Michaels nodded slowly. "Stellar Guard Investigations? Yes, and I suspect he could wear quite a bit of silver lace, too, if he wanted to get dressed up." He clasped his hands behind his head.

"Let's see, Don, you're almost twenty now. Right?"

"That's right, Dad."

"Uh huh. And you were born here on Khloris. Means I've been out of active duty for quite a while, at that." He smiled.

"Got papers upstairs. They say I retired a little more than twenty-one years ago. Got official permission to live on an outworld and joined the first group of colonists here. Of course, they don't say anything about the people that told me to do all that."

Don stared at him. "What are you getting at, Dad?"

His father smiled. "Man retires, he's supposed to be all through with duty. Not subject to recall except in case of galaxy-wide emergency." He nodded thoughtfully.

"True. But a lot of people never really retire from the Guard. Things keep coming up, and that pension begins to look more like a retainer fee."

He held up a hand.

"Suppose I give you a little go-around on some history that isn't in the books—at least not in the books they use in these schools.

"Of course, you know about the arrival of the Stellar Queen. You've read all about the original trade contracts here in Oredan. And you've read a lot about the immigrations. And the border settlements.

"Yes, and you know about the accession of Daniel Stern, first to the Ministry of Finance, then to the Prime Ministry, then to the Regency. Quite a success story, that. And you have read about the mixup in the royal succession." He smiled.

"It all went about that way. Oh, sure, it wasn't quite as peaceable and orderly as the books make it look, but no history bothers with the minor slugfests. What they're concerned in is the big picture.

"Well, when the king agreed to colonization of the outer provinces, quite a few people came crowding out here. And there was more than a little thievery and brawling and rioting. Naturally, the Federation Council was interested. And the Stellar Guard was more directly interested.

"So, they encouraged a lot of retired guardsmen to come out here, weapons and all. And they assigned a few more people to ... well, sort of keep an eye on things. They set some people up with reasonably decent claims, saw to it that the rest of us got a good start, and left us to take it from there." He smiled.

"We had some fun, now and then. Got the border pacified. Got the crooks and the tough boys calmed down. And we got the hill tribes cooled off some, too. Even made friends with them—after a while. And some guys got married and made noises like real Khlorisanu—genuine Oredanu, in fact. A few of them married Oredana girls." He laughed shortly.

"The Khlorisanu are humanoid—human to as many decimals as you need to go. There's a little minor variation in superficial appearance between them and the average galactic, but there's no basic difference. Quite a few of the fellows found the local girls made good wives.

"But anyway. There wasn't any real organization among us. We just ... well, sort of knew what the other fellow was about. Kind of kept our own personal policy files. And things went along pretty well.

"Oh, there were some fellows who stuck to some sort of organizational structure, I suppose. You know how that is—some guys can't draw a deep breath unless the rest of the team is there to fill in the picture.

"And then, there were several people like Andy Masterson, who showed up from nowhere. That was none of my business. Happened to know Andy, but I've never talked to him here. Those people had complete new backgrounds. No Guard experience—it says here. And they joined the economy—took out Oredan citizenship. Some of them got into government work.

"Then this guy, Daniel Stern, showed up. He started grabbing influence with both hands. Smart young guy. Killed off a prime minister—we think—and a king. Can't prove any of that, though." Kent shook his head.

"Don't think we didn't try to stop him, once we realized what he was up to. We did. About that time, a whole lot of us did get together and organize. But he's one of those people. If he tells a man to go out and shoot himself, the next thing you hear is the sound of a falling body." His eyes clouded and he looked searchingly at Don.

"You should know what I mean. Like when you told that Ghar thief to tell us all about it—remember?"

"Look, Dad, that's something I'd like to know...."

Kent Michaels waved a hand. "So would I. But I know less about it than you do, so it's no use. All I know is that some people can tell most anyone to do almost anything—and it gets done. As I said, Stern seems to be one of them." He shrugged.

"Anyway, we lost a lot of good colonists before we decided to sit back and wait this boy out.

"It's been a long wait. Some of us have gotten rich in the meantime, in spite of Stern's trick taxes. Some of us have had a pretty rough time, I guess. But we're all growing older, and Stern's pretty cagey about immigration. Doubt if many guardsmen are getting in these days. We're going to have to depend on our kids, I think."

Don leaned forward.

"In other words, I could have kicked over an applecart?"

"Well, let's say you might have bent an axle on your own pretty, blue wagon. It's a good thing Masterson was there when you blew up. Anyone else, and I might have come up short one son. I wouldn't like that too well. Might make me go down to Oreladar and try a little target practice." He frowned thoughtfully.

"You know, come to think of it, no one ever made me do anything I didn't want to do."

Don looked thoughtful.

"What do I do now?"

"Just what you said. Start working for your keep. If I get the news right, the waiting period is about over. Stern's finally dipped his toe in the water, with that business over Waern, and we might be able to do something. You just might get your teeth into it. And maybe I'll find myself going back to work.

"First, you'll have to go back to Riandar. Apologize to Masterson, of course, and give him a peace offering. I'll give you a bottle of Diamond Brandy before you leave. Be sure you hold the diamond in front of him when you stick the bottle out. Otherwise, he might throw something. He'll take it from there." The older man grinned.

"And if I remember Andy Masterson, he'll come up with enough work to keep you busy."

Andrew Masterson frowned at the bottle held before him.

"What's this?" he inquired. "You know better than to bring stuff like this on the grounds."

Don Michaels shrugged. "Dad said there wasn't too much of it around any more. Thought you might like some."

"Oh, he did? Yeah. Well, I'll take it as well meant. Might find someone who could use it." Masterson opened a drawer and thrust the bottle inside.

"He have anything else to say?"

Don nodded, looking at Masterson's suddenly watchful eyes. "He said if you'd come up our way, he'd show you how to hold 'em and squeeze 'em. Said maybe you might like to bring up some friends some time and give them a chance to find out what border life is like."

"Huh! You mean he's still playing games with those antique lead tossers?" Masterson grinned suddenly. "Thought he'd have outgrown that foolishness years ago. By the way, how's he shooting these days?"

"Fired a pinwheel after I told him about the row yesterday. Meant he only dropped three points on the target—standing."

"So? Maybe he could do damage with one of those antiques of his, at that—if he could get someone to hold still long enough for him to shoot at them. But nobody makes ammunition for the things any more. Where's he getting that?"

"Makes it himself." Don smiled. "He's got quite a workshop down in the basement."

Masterson nodded. "That's Kent Michaels, all right. O.K., youngster, I knew who you were in the first place. Just checking. Tell me, did he get you mixed up with that antique craze of his?"

Don nodded. "I beat him at it once in a while, sir."

"Did you hand him another beating yesterday? When you went out of here, it looked as though you were going to have to whip somebody."

Don frowned. "He made a monkey out of me. I couldn't stay on target."

"Uh, huh." Masterson nodded slowly. "Figures. Remember that, that it'll be the most valuable match you ever lost."

"Sir?"

"That's right. Yesterday, you got pretty well charged up. Even managed to warm up a secret police agent. Doesn't pay, believe me. About the time you get emotionally involved in a problem, the problem turns around and bites you. You're lucky. Someone else got bit instead—this time. You see, one of us didn't get shook up."

"I don't——"

Masterson tilted his head. "We had an unfortunate accident here right after you left. Dr. Rayson went rushing out of here and took off in his flier. Something went wrong—nobody's sure what. Maybe he didn't let his stabilizing rotors have time to lock in. Maybe a lot of things. Anyway, he flipped about fifty meters up. Came down pretty fast, and burned right by the parking lot. Quite a mess." He nodded sadly.

"Shame. Fine psychologist, and one of the best secret policemen in the realm."

"You——"

Masterson held up a hand. "Let's just say he was careless." He motioned.

"Sit down. No, not in the hot seat. Take that one over there. Then you can see things." He drew a long breath.

"Your father say anything about Stern?"

Don nodded. "He doesn't like him too well."

"He's got company. Know what Stern's trying to do, don't you?"

Don laughed uneasily. "I'm pretty well mixed up, to be truthful. From what Dad told me, he's trying to turn Oredan into a Dictatorship, with him at the head. Then, he'll take over the rest of the planet—a piece at a time."

"Close. He's planned it pretty well, too. He's got the royal succession pretty well balled up. He's almost ready to move in right now. Only one stumbling block. Know what that is?"

Don shook his head.

"Youngster named Petoen Waern. He's old enough—older than he looks. His mother's a niece of the last king. Conclave of the tribes could put him on the throne tomorrow morning. He's a bet Stern missed a while back. Now, he's trying to make up for it."

Don frowned. "Is that really why——"

"Right. That's why the row in the locker room. That would have eliminated that claimant in a hurry. Nobody wants a king with a family criminal record and a habit of starting brawls—especially when he loses those brawls. Kings just aren't supposed to go in for that sort of thing." Masterson smiled mirthlessly.

"Anyway, I doubt he'd have survived that affair if you hadn't rammed your neck into it."

"But there are other claimants. They'll come of age pretty soon."

"Sure they will. But that's pretty soon—and not soon enough. Besides, Stern's got them under control, along with their families—the important ones, anyway. There'd be a deadlock when a conclave started checking their claims. And somehow, their councilors wouldn't be able to come up with quite the right arguments.

"If a formal conclave meets, and no claimant is clearly eligible for the throne—know who'll be called to start a new royal line?"

"But he——" Don shook his head doubtfully.

"Yes, he could." Masterson shook his head. "Sure, he's regent. But he hasn't renounced his position as prime minister. And with his personal effect on people, he couldn't lose. No, the only reason he can't stand a conclave right now is one youngster—and one family he's never been able to control, because they stay out of his personal reach. And he almost got the youngster out of the way. Neat little operation, with only one thing that could go wrong. You."

Don frowned. "But that affair was just a personal——"

"Think so? Oh, sure, I gave the Hunters a big horselaugh yesterday. Rayson was around then. And Rayson was a pretty big boy. He knew all about the Hunters, I'm pretty sure. And I know better than to laugh about them." He leaned forward.

"I can't prove it, and it wouldn't do too much good if I tried, but I know perfectly well who's behind not only the Hunters, but a flock of other criminal gangs—juvenile and adult as well. Think I didn't know I was talking to a bunch of Hunters when I listened to that rigged story of theirs about the Keltons? Think I didn't realize Rayson was sitting there prompting them whenever they started to get confused?" He smiled.

"Maybe I'm stupid, but I'm not that stupid. The reason I was rough on you was the fact I didn't want you signing any statements that Pete had hypnotized—or what would you call it—you. That would have fixed the whole thing and they'd have had him." He coughed.

"And, too, I knew who you were, of course. I didn't know for certain how you stood, or how much you could do, but you looked good. And it was pretty obvious you had capabilities." He smiled.

"Some of the retired guardsmen have had sons go sour on them, you know, so I can't take 'em just on faith. But, as I said, the locker room deal looked good, and the more you talked, the better I liked it."

"But you——"

"Yeah, I know. I wasn't taking such a chance, though, at that. Truth of the matter is I'm about as bad as your father. You couldn't make me give you the right time if I didn't feel like it." Masterson's eyes crinkled in an amused smile.

"Go ahead. Try it."

Don shook his head. "I'll take your word," he said. "I tried to tell Dad off once. Somehow, things get a little unpleasant."

"Yeah." Masterson stretched luxuriously. "Anyway, I figured you'd be a lot handier around here alive and in operating condition. The last thing I could let happen would be for Rayson to get you on that trick table of his. Once he got that thing to rocking and rolling, he'd stand back there, making soothing noises, and almost anyone would break down and give him all they'd ever known. After that, they'd lie back and believe anything he felt like telling them." He waved a hand back and forth as Don started to speak.

"Later, huh? We can discuss all the ins and outs some day when this is all over. Right now, let's be getting back to business." He smiled disarmingly and leaned back in his chair.

"Somehow, Stern's hand has got to be forced. He's off balance right now, and we want him further off. We want him to make a move he can't back out of. And you may be able to make him do just that."

"I might?"

"Yes. Suppose the hill tribes joined with the Waernu and demanded that a conclave consider Pete's claim to the throne. What then?"

"I guess there'd be a conclave."

"There might, at that. Now, let's go a little further. Suppose the Waernu claim were upheld and we got a new king—let's see, he'd drop a syllable—King Petonar. Where would our friend, Stern, end up?"

Don grinned wolfishly. "Khor Fortress. Even I can figure that much out."

Masterson stood up and paced around the office.

"So, if we can get Jasu and his son in motion and get them up in the Morek, something's bound to break. Right?" He stopped in front of Don.

"Oh, of course, Stern might call out the Royal Guard and scream rebellion. He'd probably do just that, if things went that far. He's getting in the propaganda groundwork for it now. But what he doesn't know is that he'd help us that way." He perched on Rayson's desk.

"You see, we've got some colonists that would yell at the top of their lungs for protection of their interests by the Federation. And then there would be a conclave—with plenty of supervision. Either way, he'd get right into checkmate." He clasped one knee in his hands and rocked back and forth.

"But there's one thing that stands in our way. Jasu Waern's scared to death. We've never quite dared explain this whole thing to him, and now no one can get near enough to talk to him. Harle was the clan head and the one with the nerve. He's gone, and Jasu's holed up. Won't let his son out of the house. Won't let anyone in. We can't move."

He got back to his feet and walked over to the window.

"Now, let's take some more suppositions. Suppose a flier went out of control and crashed in the middle of the Waern house. Or suppose some major criminal took refuge close to the place and decided to shoot it out with the Enforcement Corps. Seems to be a habit criminals have gotten into lately. And suppose a stray inductor beam just happened to graze the Waern living room.

"Then, who's checkmated?"

He looked down at his chair, then walked over and dropped into it.

"There's only one way to get Jasu in motion. You're it. The way you slammed Rayson back in his chair yesterday gave me an idea. You can get in there, and you'll have to move him—by force—compulsion—however you want to.

"Meantime, I'll get some things going. Your father can start the hill tribes getting together. He knows all the important head men. I'll give him a little push in that direction. Then, we'll get some more people to work."

Don looked at him for a moment. "Well, Dad told me I'd probably have to earn my keep. Anything else I ought to know?"

Jasu Waern looked up in annoyance, then got to his feet.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "How did you get in here?" He reached into a pocket.

Don Michaels spread his hands away from his body.

"Leave that weapon alone," he said sharply. "I came as a friend, and I'd hate to have someone shooting at me."

"But who are you?"

"I'm Donald Michaels. I want to talk to Pete ... Petoen, I should say."

"My son is seeing no one. There has been——"

"I know," interrupted Don. "Trouble. Listen, I've had trouble myself in the past couple of days. It all started when I prevented a bunch of roughnecks from slapping Pete around." He frowned.

"Since then, things haven't been too pleasant." He held up a finger.

"I got accused of falsifying my report on the affair in the locker room. Pete didn't show up to testify, and everyone was looking at me." He extended a second finger.

"Pressure was put on me to sign a statement saying Pete used mental influence to make me put in a false statement. And I got into it with the school psychologist." A third finger snapped out.

"Next thing, I was being accused of accepting a money bribe from Pete. And I really got into it with the faculty advisor. That's not good." He dropped his hands to his sides.

"Right now, I'm not too popular at school. And I want to know what's going on. I want to know why Pete didn't show up to give me backing. I want to know what can be done to unscramble this mess."

Wearn shook his head slowly. "There are other schools—private schools," he said. "And we are still possessed of some——"

"Careful, Mr. Waern." Don held up a warning hand. "I don't carry the sling, but I do come from the Morek. Don't say something that might be misinterpreted. I want to see things straightened out. I didn't come here to start a feud with you."

Jasu Waern shivered a little. "But you are galactic, are you not? Surely, you are no hillman."

"I was brought up among them. Now get Pete. I want to talk to both of you."

Waern looked unhappy. But he walked across the room and pulled at a cord.

A servant came to the door.

"Tell Master Petoen," ordered Waern, "that I would like to see him in here."

The man bowed and left. Waern turned back to Don.

"You see, Mr. Michaels," he said apologetically, "we are in difficult times here. My brother——"

"I know." Don nodded. "Pete was upset the other evening. He told me a little. A little more than is made public."

Waern's eyebrows went up. "He said nothing about that."

Don waved negligently. "It did no harm. Maybe it was a good thing." He turned toward the door, waiting.

Pete came in, looking about the room. "You brought Don Michaels here, Father?"

Waern shook his head. "He came. He insisted on talking to you, Petoen. And I find he is very persuasive."

"Oh." Pete turned. "I'm sorry, Don. Father thought that I——"

Don laughed shortly. "He was right—to some extent. But I'd like to talk to both of you about a few things."

He moved back, to perch on the edge of a heavily carved table.

"Let's look at it this way. I got into trouble over the affair. Not good, of course, but what happened to me is just one small incident. All over Oredan, good intentioned people have things happening to them. Sometimes, they're pretty serious things—like someone getting killed. And they usually can't figure out what hit them. These things happen pretty often. Why?"

Waern looked uncomfortable, but said nothing. Don looked at him curiously.

"Do you really think, Mr. Waern, that you can sit here in peace? That if you ignore this whole mess, it'll go away?"

Jasu Waern spread his hands. "What dare I do? My brother was trying to do something. He is gone."

"True. He tried to clean up a little here and fix a little there. And that only in one city. He didn't come boldly out and demand. He was playing on the edge of the board, not in the center. A king could do much more than that."

Waern looked at him, shaking his head.

"Yes, I know about the succession," Don told him. "And why shouldn't you demand? You could get the support of the hill tribes. All you need do is ask."

"I have thought of that. Perhaps we should have done that—once. But now? After my brother's death? And what could the hillmen do against the weapons of the plains?"

Don smiled at him. "Would the hillmen believe the stories about your brother in the face of your personal denial before their own council? Would they accept such a thing about any of the Waernu unless it were proven by strong evidence? Yours is one of the clans, even yet, you must remember. And how about the honor of the Waernu?"

Jasu's face was suddenly drawn. Don continued.

"And would the plainsmen dare use their weapons against a legitimate claimant? For that matter, what good would their weapons be against a Federation Strike Group, even if they did use them?"

"You seem so sure."

"Not just sure. Certain." Don glanced at his watch, then frowned.

"We've lost a lot of time." His voice sharpened.

"Come on," he snapped. "My sportster will carry three people. Let's get out of here while we can still make it." He made shooing motions.

Waern moved toward the door, then turned.

"To the Morek?"

"That's right. Up to the Morek. We're going to start a feud."

Andrew Masterson looked at the handset approvingly. Little Mike was getting the idea. He was still just as fast as he'd ever been. He made a little noise in his throat, then spoke.

"Well, if you have any questions, Mr. Michaels, feel free to call us here. Thank you, and good-by."

He dropped the handset to its cradle and leaned back again.

So that was set up. Little Mike would be on his way out to the hills by the time he'd completed this next call. And he'd have the clans ready for talks with the Waernu. Now, the next step would be to alert Jahns, down in the Resident Commissioner's office.

He looked at the surface of his desk, considering, then reached for the phone again. He'd have to be careful on this one.

The door opened and two men came through. One of them held out a card.

"Masterson?"

"That's right."

"Like to have you come with us. People investigating Rayson's accident have some questions they'd like to ask you."

"Oh?" Masterson's eyebrows went up. "I'm afraid I wouldn't be much help on that. I saw him go down, of course, but the view from this window isn't the best. I really——"

The other shook his head. "Look, don't tell me about it. They just told us to come out and get you. Got a lot of experts down there. They'll ask the questions."

Masterson looked at the man appraisingly, then glanced at his partner, who stood by the door, leaning against the wall.

These two, he thought, would be no great problem. Nothing here but arms and legs. But——

He smiled to himself.

It would be you or the whole tribe, he thought.

He might still be able to remain under cover, and he'd be a lot more effective that way.

So maybe they were a little suspicious. He glanced down at the desk. The little control box was safely destroyed and its operation had left no evidence. Even if they did suspect the cause of Rayson's crash, they couldn't prove a thing. No, his best bet was to go along with these two and hope the questioning would be short enough to allow him to brief Jahns with plenty of time to spare. He shrugged.

"Well," he said aloud, "I'll go with you, of course, though I don't see how I can be of any help. Terrible thing, losing Rayson that way."

"Yeah. Real bad." The other nodded curtly. "Come on. Let's go."

Daniel Stern looked angrily at his aide.

"Just who is responsible for this report?" he demanded.

The aide looked aside. "It came in from Riandar Headquarters, your honor," he said. "Colonel Konir signed it himself."

"I can read," snapped Stern. "But who's responsible? What idiot let this thing fall apart?" He shook the papers angrily.

"Look at this thing," he ordered. "Simple instructions were issued. With the organization they have up there, any fool could have carried them out. So long as they kept it simple, even an idiot could have eliminated that Waern nuisance. But no! Someone had to be subtle. Someone had to make a big project out of it. And, of course, something went wrong." He snorted angrily and slapped the papers down on his desk.

"Rayson was responsible in part, I suppose?"

The aide nodded unhappily and Stern let out an explosive breath.

"Your man! Well, at least, where he is, he can do no more harm. Tell me, are they going to get a confession out of that man, Masterson?"

"I doubt it, your honor. He claims to know nothing of the accident. And there isn't a scrap of evidence that——"

"Evidence! There's very little doubt is there? With those notes of Rayson's? And who else could have caused the crash?"

"Well, there certainly is no other——"

"Of course not. We know Masterson did it somehow. But why?"

The aide said nothing and Stern glared at him.

"Who is this Masterson?" he demanded. "Have you checked back on him?"

"He came here from Nogira," said the aide slowly, "seventeen years ago. He had some civil police experience there. We've checked that. He has a degree in criminalistic science. We checked that, too. Not a suspicious move since he came here. He was in the Civil Branch for a few years, then was assigned to instructional duty. He's got a perfectly clean record."

Stern shook his head slowly, then looked down at the desk again.

"Just that little," he growled. "He could have simply hated Rayson for some private reason. He could have seen him as an obstacle. We could care less about that." He tapped at a paper.

"Or, he could be working with the Waernu. And that's probable. He could even be an undercover agent for the Federation, though that seems a little improbable. He's been here too long. Hah! He could be almost anything except what Rayson thought." He looked up.

"Well, don't let him go. Keep him out of circulation. In fact, you better have him put in tight confinement. We'll look into him more closely later. Right now, I want to know what became of that Waern boy."

The aide pointed at the papers on the desk. "The boy and his father are reported to have left their residence, your honor. It is thought they went with that same Donald Michaels who interfered with the original plan."

Stern nodded. "The boy Rayson had right in his hands, and then let go. Yes." He looked around the room, then got to his feet.

"Tell me, has any progress been made on locating the Waern 'Book of Ancestors'?"

"No, your honor. Records has located and destroyed the last of the evidence here in Oreladar. But the Waern copy has not yet been located."

Stern nodded. "Find out who is responsible for the long delay in discovering the Waern claim, Lander. That is inexcusable." He frowned.

"Now, to the Waernu. Did anyone see them leave their home?"

The aide shook his head. "Observers say Michaels' flier landed in the Waern courtyard. A few minutes later, it took off and headed toward the mountains. The observers were unable to determine how many people were in the flier when it departed. It left too abruptly and traveled too fast. They determined its direction, but were unable to follow it."

"Valuable men! I think we should take careful note of all those people up at Riandar. Possibly they should be reassigned to duties more suited to their abilities. Tell me, did anyone have the elementary intelligence to have this flier tracked?"

"They tried, your honor. But it disappeared in the canyons, flying very low. Search fliers have been operating for several hours, but no trace of it has been found."

Stern nodded. "Well, we won't discuss it any further," he decided. "You know my feelings on the Riandar people. I should say it would be safe to assume the Waernu are holed up in Michaels' home. Get the exact location of that place. Then set up an Enforcement Corps operation." He frowned.

"Get some men out to make sure those people don't go into the hill country before we can take care of them. You can use the search planes for that. Then attend to your advance publicity and set up elimination. You'll give that personal supervision, all the way through. Clear?"

The aide nodded.

"Very well. See that you make it simple. I'm not going to tell you how to handle this in detail, but I expect to watch a broadcast showing their removal within the next three days. Get started."

"Yes, your honor." The aide backed out of the room.

Stern watched the door close behind the man, then faced around as a dry voice sounded behind him.

"Real nice, Danny," it said. "You went through it without a stumble. Even came up with something of your own. You're learning, Kid."

Stern glared at the scrawny man.

"I thought you picked those people up at Riandar. I thought you said they knew how to do things."

The other shrugged and spread his hands. "Well, Danny," he said, "you know how it is. Once in a while, we underestimate the opposition, and they slip one over." He leaned back in his chair, staring at Stern.

"But maybe this way, it's even better," he added. "We get a few in the net we didn't even suspect existed, you see?" He paused.

"I think you should have a talk with this Masterson yourself," he went on. "Maybe you should tell him to give us some of this information he has, eh?"

Stern looked at him in annoyance. "I expect you and the rest of the people around here to do some work, Gorham. After all, I'm the regent. Do I have to do everything?"

Gorham got to his feet and brushed some of the dust from his trousers.

"I tell you, Danny," he said seriously, "some of these little things, you have to be doing. Some of these things, only your talent will take care of, no?" He held up one hand, waggling a finger in the air.

Stern glared at him.

"Gorham," he snapped, "I think I'll have to remind you of your place." He tapped himself on the chest.

"I'm the regent, remember? I'm the kingpin here. You're just a senior executive secretary. You wanted it that way, and that's the way it is. But I expect you to start doing some work. I don't care how you get information out of that man, Masterson, but I expect you to get it. I certainly don't intend to do your work for you. Now get at it!"

Gorham considered him for a moment, then walked slowly across the room till he stood before Stern's desk.

"Now, Danny-boy," he said softly, "don't you go trying that funny stuff on old Jake. It don't work so good, remember? Nobody ever tells old Jake he should do things. Nobody!"

He planted his left hand on the desk before Stern and leaned over a little.

"We got an agreement, you and I, remember? I do the thinking. Me—old Jake Gorham—I'm the brain. You got this talent, see. You tell people they should go do something, they go do it. But not old Jake. No, no. With him, it don't work so good. Everybody else, maybe, but not old Jake." He waved his head to and fro, keeping watchful eyes on Stern.

The younger man slammed his hands to his desk, pushing himself back.

"You listen to me, old man," he snapped. "We had an agreement—once. And you've been using it to ride my back ever since. It's come to an end. Right now." He got to his feet, his deepset eyes seeming to flame.

"From now on, I'm the top man, do you understand?" His lip curled.

"I'm the regent. I'm the law. I tell these people what to do, and they do it. And I can tell them to take you out and shoot you. Don't forget that." His hand started toward a button on his desk.

Jake Gorham's hand blurred into motion and a small weapon was suddenly in it. He pointed it at Stern.

"Sit down, Danny-boy," he ordered menacingly. "Sit down. And listen. Listen real good." He spread his legs a little.

"Like I said, I'm the brains here. I do the thinking. Remember back in Tonar City? Remember what happened, you tried once to run things for yourself? Remember who came along and pulled you out just in time?" He laughed shortly.

"Yeah, you need old Jake. You gotta have him. You think you just tell these people—they should do anything you want. Oh sure. That lasts for a while, maybe, but they get tired. Just like on Konelree, remember? And what do you do when a whole mob moves in on you? Eh? What do you do? You ain't got the moxie to handle no mobs, remember?

"But old Jake, he thinks of things, and we both get along real good. Yeah, Danny-boy, you need old Jake." He glanced down at his weapon, then waved it from side to side.

"But you know something else? Old Jake, he don't need you so much. Oh, sure, it's nice here. I like it real good. But I got along real nice for a long time before I picked you up, you see what I mean. You didn't do no good at all. Talent, you got. But brains? No, them they didn't give you. And they didn't give you much guts, either, Danny-boy. Them, I got.

"And you know something else, Danny-boy? I got all kinds evidence. You done some pretty bad things here, remember?" He smiled, exposing yellow teeth.

"Real bad things, they wouldn't like them at all. And I can prove all them things. Me, I ain't got no responsibility. I'm just a poor, little old guy you keep around for laughs, remember?" He chuckled.

"You tell them to take me out and shoot me? I should laugh. You reach for that button. Go ahead. Stick your finger out. Then this thing here, it sings you a little song. And I go get some papers I got somewhere around here. And I go get some recordings. And maybe a few pictures. And then Old Jake's a public hero. And he takes a lot of money and goes away from here, he should spend his old age some place where he likes it better." He waved the weapon again.

"Still want to play?"

Stern's face was bloodless. He dropped into his chair, then put his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Jake," he said. "Sorry. I guess I'm just a little tired right now. Forget it, will you?"

"Sure, Danny-boy. Sure. We forget all about it. Now suppose we quit for the night, eh? Then in the morning, we get this Masterson fellow in here. And you find out from him just who he is and why he comes here. And you can let him tell us what he's been doing and who he's been working with, eh?" Gorham smiled and stuck the weapon back in his sleeve.

"We ain't doing so bad," he went on. "We ain't doing bad at all." He reached out to stir the papers on Stern's desk with a forefinger.

"These people up at Riandar, they don't do so good maybe on that Waern kid. But they don't do so bad all the time. They get this Masterson, see? Right away, they're on him, soon as this guy Rayson gets himself killed off."

Stern nodded. "Yes," he admitted, "at least, they did have the sense to pick up Masterson—after he'd done plenty of damage. They were pretty slow. And they missed the Michaels boy entirely. So now, the Waern boy is out of easy reach." He frowned.

"We had things set up for an elimination on him, you know."

Gorham wagged his head. "Makes very little. Him, we can get. Him, they take care of in a couple days. Same operation, they should just move it a few miles, eh? Your boy with all them buttons, he takes care of that, see?" He grinned.

"And that takes care of this Michaels kid, too." Again, he poked at the papers.

"And here, we got another report. This young Michaels' father, he talks to this guy Masterson on the phone. You see that? And right away, he heads for the mountains. Maybe he wants to talk to the hill people, eh?" His grin became wider.

"But somebody at Riandar, he gets a rush of brains to the head, see? And the border patrol, they challenge this old guy, you get it? Just a routine check, see, but the old guy, he don't get the word so quick.

"So they don't take no chances up there. They knock him down in some canyon up there." He shrugged.

"So all this leaves this Masterson, you could talk to him, maybe he sings us some nice music." He turned away.

"I stay around, back at my desk. Maybe I should think of a question or two while we talk, the three of us, eh?"

The royal gold and blue receded from the screen and Merle Boyce's face looked out at his audience.

"This," he said shortly, "is the second day of the hunt for the Wells gang." He came out from behind his desk, his piercing eyes intent.

"For the past full day, this group of robbers have made their way toward the west. It is thought they hope to join rebellious hill tribes somewhere in the Morek region." He paused.

"Late yesterday afternoon," he continued, "these four men burned their way through a road block near Riandar. And despite reinforced blocks and stringent sky checks, they are still at large. All subjects of the realm are urgently requested to notify the authorities of any suspicious strangers."

He faded from the screen, to be replaced by the figures of four men.

"In co-operation with the Enforcement Corps," his voice continued, "we are showing pictures of the fugitives. We see here, Howard Wells, Merla Koer, Dowla Wodl, and Jake Milton." The voice stopped for a moment, then continued.

"These men are regarded as extremely dangerous. Subjects are urged to make no effort to approach them personally. Notify the authorities immediately if they are seen."

Don reached to the switch and snapped the receiver off.

"I don't like it," he said slowly. "I don't like any part of it."

"Think we might have visitors?" Pete looked at him thoughtfully.

Don nodded. "It could be just a build-up," he said. "Did you get that thrust about the tribes?"

Jasu Waern cleared his throat. "You mean those four are perhaps——"

"I doubt if those four ever lived," Don told him. "At least not with those names. If we have visitors, they'll be more official—and a lot more dangerous." He paused.

"Wish Dad had come back. I'd like to get you off to the hills. Not so comfortable, perhaps, but it would be safer." He looked at the ceiling.

"Of course, with all those fliers chasing around right now," he added, "it might be complicated."

Pete looked at him curiously. "One thing I can't figure, Don," he remarked. "Why didn't you head right on into the hills from Riandar?"

Don spread his hands. "Intended to, hang it," he said. "They loused me up. Remember the dipsy-doodle I turned in that box canyon?"

"Think I'd forget?" Pete grinned. "Nearly got a busted head out of that one."

"Yeah. Well, I'd planned to jump the ridge and go on over to a clan village I know. We nearly caught it right there."

"We did?"

"Uh, huh. Some border patrol ship had a ripper. Lucky he got over-anxious. He cut loose out of effective range and shook us up. That gave me the news and I ducked for cover and streaked for home before he could get to us for a better shot."

"And now, you think perhaps they are trying to hunt us down as they did my brother?" Jasu Waern shook his head. "But this—it would be impossible to represent us as...."

Don tilted his head. "Nothing impossible about it—if they know where we are." He looked around the room.

"And it looks as though they do. Someone probably spotted my flier when I landed in your courtyard."

Pete looked at him unhappily. "Maybe we moved right into his hands. Maybe we're better targets here than we were in the city."

Don moved his head from side to side decisively. "Never happen. This mythical Wells gang could have been holed up in the city, too, you know. And there, you'd have no warning. You'd have no defense and nowhere to go. This isn't some little summer cottage, you know. We can give them a bad time."

Jasu Waern shook his head sadly. "Yes," he admitted, "we can, as you say, give them a bad time. But a flash or two from one of their inductors will destroy this house just as surely as it did my brother's cottage."

"Maybe." Don smiled. "I've got some ideas on that, too. But there's more to this house than you see from outside. This place was built during the border wars, you know. We've got a place to duck to."

Pete stood up. "What's that?"

"There's a basement under this house. Shelters down there. Even total inductor destruction of the house wouldn't hurt anyone down there." Don pointed with a thumb.

"Got entry locks right out in the court."

"But their clean-up crews. Where would you hide from them?"

Don shook his head, smiling. "They won't do too much searching," he said calmly. "If they actually do attack this place, they'll get some genuine resistance. And there'll be a Federation patrol out here right after the shooting, to investigate the destruction of a Galactic Citizen's property."

His smile broadened. "At least, that'll be a good excuse. You see, Mr. Masterson's alerted people at the Commissioner's office. They know who's here—or will, when the shooting starts."

"But with this build-up, it will seem like an ordinary hunt for a criminal gang." Pete shook his head doubtfully.

"No, I don't think so." Don walked over to the heavy door leading to the range.

"Better get some of the weapons up here now, though. We'll have to give them a little show."

Pete looked at him curiously.

"Why bother?" he asked. "Why can't we just duck into the shelter and let 'em blast? Then we could wait for the patrol."

Don shook his head.

"The type of resistance offered will be a tip-off to the Guard," he said. "I'm going to use an unusual type of weapon. Besides, Stern's people have detectors. Remember those? There's got to be life force in detector range, or they'll assume we've either deserted the place or found refuge below ground. Then they would come in for sure. And they'd really search the place." He smiled grimly.

"I'd rather take my chances on getting shelter from a blast after they commit themselves than take on a batch of those monkeys in a hand-to-hand down in the basement." His smile faded.

"It'll be touch and go, at that. The force of an inductor blast is nothing to joke about. We can roll into the ledges and hope, but we still might get singed a little." He sighed and spread his hands.

"Well, I asked for work. Guess I've got it. Sorry you may get scorched around the edges, but——"

Pete looked at the heavy wall on the other side of the outer court.

"At least, we've got a better chance than Uncle Harle had. They probably tied him up. And no matter——" He shrugged.

"All right, Don, let's get those weapons."

Illustrated by van Dongen

"Well, here they come." Don Michaels looked out of a weapons embrasure.

From the port, the advancing men were far more visible than they intended to be. One after another, they crawled and dashed through the grass, their weapons held before them. They concealed themselves from the house as best they could behind hummocks and clumps of grass. Then, weapons probing toward the house, they waited.

A couple of hundred meters from the house, a weapons carrier purred into position, wheeled to face the house, and stopped, the muted roar of its motor dying to a faint rumble.

Closer to the house, there was a hollow in the earth, a scar from some long-forgotten skirmish. Over the years, rain and wind had worked on it, softening its once harsh outlines. Grass had grown in, to further mask the crater, till now it was a mere smooth depression in the ground. From the edge of this depression, rose the slender rod of a speaker, a small, directional loud-speaker blossoming from it.

Michaels grinned and turned aside for an instant.

"Just like the big broadcasts, Pete," he remarked. "Feel important? You're going to have a big audience."

"Kind of like it better if I were making a personal appearance. Be a lot nicer if I could talk to them—and they could see my face."

"They can't let you do that," Don grinned. "You don't look enough like any of those guys they're supposed to be hunting. Spoil the whole effect that way."

Pete looked at him thoughtfully.

"You know, they always tell people to throw their weapons out and come out with their hands in the air. What would happen if someone took 'em up on it—like the wrong someone—like me, for instance?"

"Good question," Don told him. "Saw a guy come out in one broadcast. Someone vaporized him. No way of telling which direction the spray came from, of course. No tracer on the beam." He shrugged.

"Somehow, I don't think it would lead to a long and happy life."

"No." Pete nodded. "I didn't suppose it would." He looked at the long target rifle in Don's hands.

"You could have gotten several of them with that, while they were getting into position, couldn't you?"

"Suppose so," Don nodded. "But I'm saving it for a while. Got an idea, but it's a one-shot and I'll have to wait before I try it." He paused as a head appeared close to the base of the loud-speaker stand.

"Well, the show's about to start," he added quietly. "Here's the man with the serenade."

The speaker disintegrated in blazing fury and Pete turned away from the glare, to look back at the house.

"Took your father years to get this place built the way he wanted it," he remarked. "Shame you're going to have to lose it this way." He glanced over at his companion.

Don was stretched out in the prone position, his sling tight on his arm, the rifle extended.

"Yeah," he said. "But maybe we won't lose it—not just yet."

He rolled, forcing his elbow further under the rifle.

"Look, Pete, I think I'll wait till these guys are ready for the last act, but you better go ahead and take cover. They've committed themselves now. I'll duck later, if I have to, but I've got an idea that just might work out."

He laid his cheek against the stock, concentrating on his sights. The barrel moved up and down with his breathing, then stopped.

Pete examined him curiously, then looked out of his port.

The projector barrel was moving, to center its lens on target. As Pete watched, the lens barrel swung till he could see the glint of light on the outer focusing circles. As the rack with its charges started to face him, he moved back, preparing to roll into the narrow slit beneath the wall.

Now, the lens was pointing directly toward him, its iris beginning to widen. He slid off the ledge.

There was a sudden, snapping explosion near him. He looked up, to see the lens system disintegrate. The projector suddenly became a blue glare.

Pete watched as the tiny figures of the crew members flew back from their fiercely glowing weapon.

Abruptly, he realized he was in an exposed position. He ducked sideways, away from the opening, and covered his face.

There was a rumbling multiple explosion. Blinding light reflected from the walls of the house. A few tiles crashed to the court. Pete caught his breath again and risked an upward glance.

A tall pillar of flame had grown from the field outside. For long moments, it stood motionless, searching for a limit to the sky. Then it darkened. Smoke drifted toward the ranch house and bits of wreckage rained down upon house and field alike. Little puffs of smoke appeared in the sky, close by the still rising cloud.

"Pinwheel," said Don calmly. "That's one Dad couldn't beat if he tried. Wish he'd been around to see it." Suddenly, his forced calm deserted him.

"Oh, boy," he yelled happily. "Like shooting snakes in a pit." He shoved his rifle back through the port.

"Try to wreck our house, will you, you bums!"

A figure wobbled up from the field, weapon weaving unsteadily toward the wall. The rifle snapped viciously and the figure melted back into the ground.

There was another motion and a sudden spurt of dust followed immediately after the sound of a shot. The motion ceased.

The sound of the click of the rifle action was loud against the silence of the scene.

No more figures moved. Bright flames were growing—working toward one another, to form a widening lake of flame in the grass. Don sighed and started pulling the sling from his arm. Pete stood up, looking at him.

"I'm a little confused," he said slowly. "I thought that weapon of yours merely threw a solid missile. The way you described it, I thought it was just ... well, something like a long-range throwing sling."

He looked out the port again, then pointed.

"But that weapons carrier was shielded. I didn't think you could touch one of those with anything but another inductor."

Don leaned the rifle against the wall.

"That's the way they figured it, too," he remarked. "But they forgot something.

"You see, rifles have been obsolete for so long everybody's forgotten their capabilities. Everybody, that is, except a few crazy hobbyists. And no one ever thinks in terms of long-range missile throwers."

"So?"

"So, I've been watching these clay pigeon shoots of theirs for a long time. They've had a lot of them on broadcasts, you know. And I noticed they always operate the same way. Actually ... well, you saw them. They're not too careful." He smiled.

"Remember you remarked that I could have potted a few of them while they were getting into position? Only reason I didn't was that I didn't want to give them a warning." He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"You see, they know they're going to use that projector. The rigged speaker just makes it look good—as though the blast were necessary and unavoidable. That way, the public is convinced that the whole affair is a heroic battle against evil. See what I mean?

"So, they have everything all set up. Safeties are off. Activators are hot. Everything's lined up so they can look sharp. Snappy operation."

He shook his head with a smile. "But actually, they're a little overconfident. Their field screen will stop any heat ray. No khroal charge can get through—it'd get damped. The screen will ground out a Nerne-Herzfeld couple, and no bunch of fugitives is going to be lugging an inductor around with them. So there can't be any counter-battery fire. Result? The projector crew feels perfectly safe."

His smile widened. "But that isn't enough. They want to be comfortable, too. It's hot inside a deflector screen and they'd get their uniforms all sweaty and out of press. Besides, the screen draws a lot of power and they'd have to rev up their motor. The noise would make it rough for the sound crew. Catch?"

Pete moved his head. "I begin to get the idea," he said. "The inductors are real touchy when they're armed. They can arc over and flare back in a real hurry if things get in their fields. That's why the safety lens—and the iris."

"Sure." Don nodded. "Sure it is. And it keeps the beam tube nice and unobstructed. Dry, too. As I said, they're pretty safe. Just like pigeon hunters." He looked out at the field.

"Sort of funny how things can add up," he added. "Here's a guy who makes all sorts of plans. He's got everything figured out and tied up with a ribbon. He's got the whole Galactic Federation standing around, just watching. Not a thing they can do to him legally. And he's got all Oredan in his pocket—all but one family and a few odd yokels he doesn't even worry about. So he's about to fix the family.

"Then someone else starts planning. And some little guy goes and slips a little chunk of fast moving lead down a lens barrel that nobody even thought of protecting. And everything goes wrong. All kinds of things happen. Like investigating patrols ordered in by the Stellar Guard. And conclaves." He grinned and looked at the sky to the west.

"So," he added, "a few little things add up. One family. One little piece of lead. One house that didn't get blown up. One flight of——" He let his voice trail off and looked at his watch.

"Wonder where those patrol ships are. They should be in plain sight by this time, diving down the eastern slope."

He narrowed his eyes, searching the empty western sky.

Pete looked around the courtyard. Broken tiles littered the ground. Here and there, lay bricks and bits of mortar. Some freak of backblast had torn a shutter off the house and it lay brokenly a few feet from him. He looked back toward the house.

One corner of the roof had been shattered and he could see broken roof beams. A cornice from the wall had crashed into the house front and bits of it lay strewn through a gaping hole in the living room wall. Stucco littered the narrow border of shrubbery around the house, whitening the green of the leaves.

And a twisted bit of metal caught his attention. Obviously, it was part of a flier. He shook his head and looked at the sky over the western mountains.

"Quite a blast," he said. "Look, Don, are you sure anything's coming to back us up? A couple more of these and we'll be standing in an open field."

Michaels reached up to stroke his face. "Right now, I'm not too sure about anything," he admitted. "Except that next time they try to comb us over, they'll take a few less chances." He frowned.

"Mr. Masterson was pretty certain about things, but——"

He spun around and walked toward the flier port.

"You know, I think we'd better play it safe," he went on. "Right now, we've got clear air. That explosion put everything around here on the ground, but hard. But that won't last. Stern's people will be flocking around here in a few minutes to see what went on. We better not be around when they arrive. Go get your father."

He pulled the flier door open.

"I'll have this thing warmed and ready to flit by the time you get back up here. Make it fast, will you?"

Pete had already dived down an escape slot. As Don started through his pre-flight routine, he reappeared. Jasu Waern followed him.

"What happened?" The older man looked around the littered courtyard, then at the flier which Don had pushed out of its cover. His eyes widened.

"But I thought they would use an inductor."

"They tried," Don told him. "Come on. Get in." He looked anxiously at his instrument panel.

"Little risky," he muttered, "taking off so fast. Synchs and generators haven't had time to stabilize. But it beats letting them get in range for some more target practice."

He eased a lever toward him and watched the pointers on a dial as the flier lifted. The red needle started to oscillate and he reached quickly to adjust a knob. The oscillation stopped. He looked overside.

"Hm-m-m," he said, "so far, so good. Well, let's have at it."

He reached out and pulled a handle toward him, watching the needles. They remained steady and he nodded and pulled another control toward him, then gripped the control wheel.

The flier leaped into the air and surged toward the mountains.

Don sighed and made a minute adjustment on the synchro knob.

"Well, we haven't flipped yet," he said. "We'll stay on deck all the way. Not such a good target that way. Take a look back there, Pete. See anything in the air to the east?"

"Yeah." Pete had been looking back. "There's plenty back there. And they're in a hurry."

Don jerked his head around, then glanced at the mountains before them.

"So are we. They built this thing to win races, not lose them. Hope they knew what they were doing." He pulled a panel lever all the way back and the flier surged forward, pressing them back into their seats.

"Hang on," he said. "Some of these corners are going to be tight."

The ship swung into a narrow valley between two hills, bucking and twisting as Don worked the control back and forth. As a high cliff loomed up in front of them, he pulled the flier up, then around in a screaming turn. A second later, they almost touched the tips of trees as they swung around the shoulder of a steep hill. The flier dropped abruptly, seeking the floor of a gorge, then swung violently as it followed a swift flowing stream.

Don guided it into a side gorge, then suddenly pulled up, to jump through a notch in the surrounding hills. For an instant, the flier paused, hovering in the air over a deep, wide valley, then it dropped like a stooping falcon, sweeping sideways at the end of its drop, to come to rest under an overhanging rock formation. The pilot snapped off switches and leaned back.

"We've got a small-sized walk ahead of us," he said, "but it's through some pretty dense growth and we'll be invisible from the air." He grinned.

"The way I dove into that first canyon, anyone with detectors on me would assume I was heading for the Doer—if he knew the country fairly well. Hope that's the way they know it—just about that well."

He climbed out of the ship, holding the door open.

"Come on, Pete," he ordered, "give me a hand and we'll shove this thing back in the cave so it won't be too easy to spot."

Jasu Waern climbed out after his son.

"I shall help, too," he said resignedly. "Which of the clans do we join?"

Don put a shoulder against the side of the flier. "Kor-en," he said. "I know them pretty well. Matter of fact, the Korenthal wanted to adopt me at one time. Dad talked him out of it."

Waern nodded. "The Kor-en are known to us," he murmured. "Possibly——" He added his weight to the pressure on the flier's side.

They pushed the machine far back into the cavern under the rock, then camouflaged its smooth lines with brush and rubble. Finally, they walked over the rough ground to a nearby thicket. Don paused, looking up. Then he pointed.

"There they are," he said, "in a search pattern. Guess they got a detector flash on us when we jumped the ridge." He shrugged. "Well, they've got a tough hunt now. We'll detour through that line of trees to keep out of the open."

He jerked his head, to point.

"There's a narrow break in the cliffs way over there. When we get through that, we'll come into Korelanni."

Halfway through the narrow crevice, Don stopped and turned aside, to enter a narrow alcove that had been carved out of the rock. Hanging inside was a long tube of wood. Don rubbed his hands vigorously on the moss which grew on the rocks, then stroked the tube.

A tone resonated from the chamber, growing louder as Don continued to stroke the tube. After a few seconds, an answering note of different pitch could be heard. Don nodded and stepped back into the path.

"It's all right," he said. "They'll meet us at the head of the path." He smiled.

"This way, we don't have someone dropping rocks on our heads."

Pete looked up at the towering cliffs which almost joined overhead.

"You mean they've got guards up there?"

"Always," Don told him. "Day and night. Right now, they're at peace with everybody, but they never let their guard down. We'll have a reception committee waiting for us." He started striding up the steep path.

At the head of the chasm, five men waited for them. In their hands, they held sticks about two feet long. At the end of each stick was a thong, with a flexible leather pad which could hold a fair sized stone. Don bowed in the direction of one of the group.

"I know you, Korendwar," he said.

The other bowed. "Michaels," he said. "I know you. And these?"

Don looked at him, his thoughts going into overdrive. The form of address was all wrong. Always before, he had been Donald, of the clan Michaels—they abbreviated it to Michaelsdon. But what had gone wrong now?

He tensed a little, then relaxed. At least, it was a friendly greeting. One does not "know" an enemy. He extended a hand toward Jasu Waern.

"I bring the Waerntal, Jasu. And his son, Waernpeto," he said.

The other nodded. "The men of Kor-en know the Waernu," he said noncommitally. "You want dealings with the Korental?"

Don nodded. "The Waerntal would discuss clan affairs with the Korental." he said. "I but serve as guide."

"It is well. You and this clansman may rest by the wells." Korendwar turned toward Jasu Waern, gesturing with his sling.

"I will conduct you to the Korental, your honor."

Pete leaned against a mossy bank and watched one of the village women as she raised a clay pot from a well.

"Tell me, Don, why did you push my father forward to consult with the Korental? Why didn't you go ahead and deal with him yourself? You said you knew him. Father doesn't."

"That's just the point," smiled Don. "I do know him. And I know his people, and his way of thinking." He waved a hand to indicate the entire collection of huts.

"These people are about as formal as you can get, when business is at hand. Did you notice the way I talked to Korendwar? Migosh, I've hunted with that guy, rolled around in the dirt with him when we were kids, know him about as well as you'd know a brother. But he was on guard. And, friend, you don't get informal with a clansman when he's on guard.

"This is just like a little nation, and the Korental is just as surely a ruler as any king of a huge country," he went on. "Even more so than most."

He fixed his eyes on the council hut, across the narrow end of the valley.

"Everyone in his clan is his child—symbolically, at least. He tells them what to do. He tells them what to plant and when—and how much. He tells them when to hunt, and where. Governs their lives down to some pretty fine points. I mean, he's as absolute as an absolute monarch can get.

"And if you want to get along with an absolute monarch, you treat him on his terms." He glanced at his companion.

"Oh, I don't mean this guy's a tyrant or despot," he added quickly. "These people are pretty proud. They wouldn't like a dictator—as such. But the Korental doesn't need force to govern his people. They do things his way because ... well, it's a matter of tradition. It's the only honorable way to do things. See what I mean?"

Pete shook his head doubtfully and Don frowned.

"Pete, your family was originally a mountain clan. I should think you'd know these customs better than I do."

Again, Pete shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said slowly, "but I don't. You see, my father and my uncle thought it would be better if I learned the customs and culture of your people and of the plainsmen. And they thought I should be familiar with the ways of the great cities."

He looked across the village at the great tree which shaded the council hut.

"You see," he continued, "my great uncle was king. And he had no children. He was getting old and it was agreed that if he died childless, his queen would then adopt me. And, of course, I would then be head of the Onaru, and king of Oredan." He smiled wanly.

"The agreement was not made public, of course. And the queen no longer lives. But signatures and agreement are recorded at Oreladar. And they appear in the Book of the Waernu, against my name. References in the Book of the Waernu are so arranged that I may be quickly removed, to be placed in an already prepared place in the Book of the Onaru, if the time should come. This and the fact that my mother was the daughter of a brother of the king, places me in the line of kings of Oredan." He shrugged.

"Especially since the king did, in fact, die childless.

"And this, in my father's eyes, meant that I should know of the plains, of the cities, and of the galactics, since there, he said, lies the power and wealth of the present day Oredan."

Don shrugged. "Wealth, maybe," he said quietly. "I'm not so sure about the power. The pressure of History is a very real thing, and I seem to remember noticing that every time some king has gotten into a jam with one of the other kingdoms or with his own nobles, he's had to raise the clans. And there have been times when that wasn't easy."

Pete nodded. "I know. The Onaru took the throne two hundred years ago, simply because the clans withheld support from the Chalenu—the Old Line."

"Yeah." Don picked idly at the bark of a tree. "And Stern's been trying to get the clans into hot water ever since he took over."

Pete looked at him for a moment, then looked about the village.

There was no orderly arrangement of houses, as could be found in town. Wherever someone had found a suitable spot, there he had embedded his poles. And there, he had erected walls, daubed them with clay from the nearby stream, and formed long, limber wands from the thickets into arched roofs, to be covered with long grass from the valley. There were isolated houses, and there were tight little groups of houses. Possibly, Pete thought, family groups.

No streets existed here, though generations of sandaled feet had beaten the ground into winding paths which led from houses to wells, and from wells to fields, and to the surrounding forest.

And there was no litter, as could be found in any city. No fallen twig or leaf was allowed to remain on the ground of the village. Grass and moss grew on unused ground and on hillsides, but before each hut, the growth gave way to the forecourt and the small garden.

Here and there, a bank by a path had been reinforced with clay cemented stones and over these grew the moss, to soften the hard outlines of the works of man. Here and there, a small, neat pile of material for building lay, to remind the onlooker that this was a still growing community. Pete leaned back.

"It's quite a bit different from the plains," he said, "and not as I thought it would be. I always thought the hillmen were wild and uncultured." He turned toward Don.

"But you still haven't really answered my question. Why is it my father has to talk to the Korental—alone?"

Don lifted a shoulder. "Simple enough," he said. "Your father is the head of your branch of the family right now. It's a pretty small clan branch—just the two of you, but he's the clan head—the Waerntal. Right?"

"I suppose so. Yes." Pete thought a moment. "Actually, I guess he's tal over more than just the two of us. We are the senior line of the family."

"Well, then. This is clan business. Your father wants to advance a member of his clan as a claimant for the throne of Oredan. He needs the support of other clans to do this. And this is important clan business. See?"

Pete rubbed at an ear. "I begin to get the idea, I guess, but it just doesn't make too much sense. He could have you speak for him. Or I could plead my own case, for that matter, couldn't I?"