It was early dawn when Linley opened his eyes, the sky overhead was a pale blue color, flecked with tiny, pink clouds. The storm was over. He stretched and sat up, feeling blurred and drugged still from his short, heavy sleep. A small animal was sniffing at his pack, and as Mark stirred it reared up on its hind legs, baring its teeth at him. Linley stared at it without interest.
"Get!" he growled.
The thing snarled. It was about the size of a Terran rat, but covered with wiry, dark fur which was, at present, standing out straight all over its body. Mark picked up a twig and hurled it at the thing. "Git!"
The creature got.
Alan hadn't stirred. Linley blinked across the charred remains of the campfire at his form. He was swaddled like a baby in the blanket, and Linley could see nothing but a tangled mop of curly, dark hair. He couldn't hear the boy breathing, even in the stillness of the morning, and his heart sank as he stared at the small figure. What was he going to do? He had never felt this way about any prisoner before.
Linley shook his head despairingly. The kid was too damn likable, that was the problem. Why else would Mr. Ship or Sheep, or whatever his name had been, have risked so much to give one of his students a break?
"Kid," he said.
Alan didn't stir, and Linley still couldn't see him breathing. A stab of alarm went through him and he came to his feet, leaping lightly over the remains of the campfire to kneel beside his prisoner.
"Alan?" He shook the boy. "Wake up!"
The tousled head lifted, and green eyes blinked up at him sleepily. The boy saw Linley's Patrol uniform and gave a cry, trying to wiggle away.
"Easy, Alan, it's me. Remember?"
"Oh, Mark!" Alan relaxed, closing his eyes for a moment. "I was dreaming." He smiled up at his captor, and Linley's heart sank even further. What the devil did you do with a prisoner who obviously liked and trusted you? He had never run into such a situation before.
"Time to get up." He spoke as harshly as he could. "We gotta go."
The worry settled on Alan's face once more, but he said nothing as Mark helped him to sit up and took the restrainers off.
"Sleep good?"
Alan nodded, leaning down to untie his feet. "I didn't get a bit cold, either."
"Yeah. Those emergency blankets are the greatest." Linley handed him a can of field rations. "Yuck! I dunno if I can face any more o' this stuff right now."
Alan was already eating. "I think they're good," he said around a mouthful.
Mark grimaced, beginning to open his own can. "Seems t'me they oughtta put somethin' else in 'em, just for variety -- y'know; spaghetti an' meatballs, or chili, or ..."
"Eggs and bacon for breakfast," Alan said.
"Now you're talkin'." Mark ate his third bite and pushed the can to Alan. "You can have it."
"Thanks." The prisoner finished his own meal and picked up Linley's. Mark took a drink from the canteen and offered it to him.
"Hurry up, kid. We gotta push on."
Alan nodded, finishing the can and scraping the bottom. "Okay." He took a swig from the canteen and handed it back.
They started off slowly. Alan was still limping, but his injured ankle was looking better, some of the swelling beginning to subside, although it was still every color of the rainbow. He fell silent as they walked, his baby face set. Linley watched him unhappily, not speaking either. Why should he care either way about the boy? So Alan had saved his life. It was clear the kid had regretted his action afterwards. Strike Commander Linley, who had long ago convinced himself that he had no conscience, now found himself wrestling with it. Why the devil should he care? Why in blazes did he care? Alan was nothing to him -- some poor Earth kid who had somehow gotten himself into this mess. Linley had nothing to do with it ...
Alan paused, breathing hard and leaning on his crutch. Linley took his elbow. "Need a rest?"
The boy nodded, and Mark lowered him to the ground. "Here, have a drink."
Alan took the canteen, thanking him. Linley scowled. "Dammit, kid!" he half-exploded in exasperation at himself. "I don't wanna take you back! You know that, don'tcha?"
Alan handed the canteen back. "Sure, I do, Mark. You haven't any choice. I understand."
Somehow, that didn't make it any better. "Salthvor'll kill me if I don't bring you in. That Jil's a real sonofabitch. He ain't got no use for 'trols who let their feelins get in the way o' their duties. I know. I've seen it happen."
"Sure, Mark, I understand."
"One guy I knew personally got soft on one o' the girl prisoners we was supposed to bring in. He tried to leave the restrainers off -- just for a while. The li'l gal got away ..." Mark let the sentence hang.
Alan's eyes widened. "Mark, are you going to get in trouble because of me? I don't want that." He extended his wrists. "Here, go ahead and put 'em on. It's okay. I'm sorry I made so much trouble about it."
Linley pushed the hands aside. "Nah! Not unless you get away while I got 'em off. He won't care, so long as I bring you back. An' you can't run away with your foot in that shape."
Alan hesitated. "Are you sure? You've been really good to me, and I sure don't want to repay you by getting you in trouble."
Linley groaned to himself. Damn the kid! Didn't he realize he was making his captor's job twice as hard by being so nice about it? What the devil did the Jils want him for, anyway?
"Mark! Alan whispered.
"What?" Linley came to his feet at the expression on the boy's face. "What is it?"
"Something's coming! Mark, I think it's one of those dinosaurs!"
"Holy space!" Linley flipped his weapon to emergency maximum. "Do you hear somethin'?"
Alan's face was pale and set. And there was a peculiar expression on his features. Mark glanced at him uneasily. "What's wrong, Alan? You look like you're about to throw up."
"It's coming," Alan said.
Linley bent, pulling the boy to his feet. "Kid, how do you know?"
His words were punctuated by a crashing in the undergrowth. Mark swept the boy up in one arm and ran toward the dense growth of bushes on their right. He shoved Alan deeply into the protective cover and crouched in front of him, blaster in both hands.
His ankle was aching again, he noted absently, and his mouth was dry, his heart pounding uncomfortably. The creature emerged from the trees, rumbling deep in its throat, and lumbered on past. The sound of its retreat faded slowly into the distance and once again the forest became still.
Mark holstered his blaster and turned to look at his prisoner. He cleared his throat. "Kid, how did you know?"
Alan shrugged. "I heard it."
"I didn't hear nothin'," Mark said, dubiously. He rose slowly to his feet, putting his weight cautiously on the ankle, but the pain had departed as quickly as it had come. He dismissed it, watching Alan.
"I've always had very good hearing," Alan said.
"Yeah. Good vision, too, I'll bet."
The boy nodded, a little puzzled. "That's right. Why?"
"Nothin'," Mark said, trying to quell the sinking sensation in his stomach. He handed his companion the crutch and helped him to stand. "Let's go."
That night they camped by a small stream which Linley remembered crossing during his pursuit of Alan. They had approximately one day of travel still ahead of them. He glanced at his prisoner and saw the boy watching him.
"Yeah, I know," he said. "We're gettin' close."
Alan sank to the ground and rubbed his ankle, not answering. Marked watched him, biting his lower lip.
"Cut it out, kid!" He spoke roughly. "There ain't no point actin' like that. I gotta do what I'm doin'."
"I know."
"'Sides," he continued, "this is probably all a stupid mistake. The Jils ain't gods, much as they like to think they are. Salthvor's goofed before."
"Sure."
Linley scowled darkly. "All you gotta do is tell 'im you're innocent. He'll read your mind an' know you ain't lyin'."
Alan didn't reply.
Again that night Mark Linley lay awake, staring up at the matted branches overhead. Both of Midgard's moons were up, and a ghostly green radiance filtered down on their small campsite. Linley cursed softly to himself, changing position for the sixth time. There was no choice and he knew it. He must turn Alan over to Salthvor. It was the only way ...
But why could Salthvor possibly want him? Alan was a green kid from Terra, certainly no criminal. Was it really all a mistake after all? Linley's mouth hardened, and he wished he could believe it.
There was one possibility that he didn't want to consider, but which nagged relentlessly at the back of his mind. He sat up abruptly. Alan was watching him, his green eyes glowing faintly in the firelight.
"Can't sleep?"
Alan shook his head.
"Ain'tcha comfortable? Ropes too tight?"
Another negative response. Linley got up and went over to him.
"You feelin' okay? You look kinda white."
"I'm all right." The response was subdued. Linley put a hand on his shoulder.
"Go to sleep, youngster, and don't worry about our dinosaur pals. I'm sleepin' with my blaster in my hand, and it's set on max."
Alan smiled a little. "Don't get any heroic dreams then."
"Huh?"
"I don't want to wake up in the middle of a forest fire."
"Oh." Linley grinned. "I'll try not to. The critters seem to move around mostly durin' the day, anyhow, but I don't wanna count on it." He frowned. "Are you okay? You look like a ghost."
Alan shifted. "I'm fine."
"All right." Linley started to stand up.
"Mark ..."
"Yeah?"
"Stay here a moment, will you?"
"Sure." Linley sat down again. There was a silence, broken only by the hum of insects. Something screeched shrilly, not far away, and the sound was answered by another screech. Linley cleared his throat, and the sound seemed loud.
"What's eatin' you, kiddo?" he asked, after a moment.
Alan blinked at him, his eyes large in the dimness. "Things don't seem so bad when you're talking to me, Mark."
Linley scowled. "Cut it out."
"Sorry." Alan fell silent again, and Mark watched him uneasily.
"Take it easy," he said, roughly, wishing he could put more conviction into his voice. "It's probably all a damn mistake. You'll be back at Space Academy by this time tomorrow night."
There was no answer. The boy had turned his face away, and Linley realized with a shock that he was crying. He watched helplessly, swearing to himself. He'd had prisoners cry before and it had never bothered him in the slightest, so why should it be so different this time? He patted Alan awkwardly on the shoulder. "Please don't do that!"
Alan gulped and took a long breath. "Sorry," he said in a muffled voice.
"Aw hell." Linley struggled to keep the sympathy out of his voice. Sympathy? Was he crazy? "Look, I understand. You're scared stiff. Honest, though, I really think you're gonna be all right ..."
"Sure." Alan gulped again. "Mark ..."
"What?"
"Isn't there ..." He hesitated. "Isn't there anything you can do?"
Linley stared at him. "What the hell do you mean?" he asked harshly.
"Nothing." The boy looked away again. "I'm sorry. I'm acting like a baby. Go on to sleep -- I'll be okay."
For a long moment Linley sat still. "I can't. Salthvor'll kill me if I let you go. I already toldya that."
"I know. Go to sleep."
"He'll kill me, Alan -- honest to God kill me. He won't just punch me around a little. He'll flatten me, then step on me. I've seen him do it to other guys."
Alan shuddered. "Forget it, Mark. Go on to sleep."
Linley remained kneeling beside his prisoner for another full minute. Neither spoke. Then he stood up and went back to his crumpled blanket. He lay down, drawing it tightly around him and staring into the matted branches overhead. All was still.
"Kid," he said at last.
"Yes?" The reply was immediate.
"Remember that contest you told me about yesterday?"
"Sure."
"Have you ever been in any other contests like that one?"
A short silence. Then: "Just one that I can think of. Why?"
"Didja win?"
Another silence. "Yes, I did. But it was a lot easier than the swimming pool, and I was just a kid. It was one of these drugstore things -- guess the number of jellybeans in the fishbowl and win a prize."
Linley felt again that sinking sensation in his stomach. "Didja hit the exact number that time?"
A long pause. "Why are you asking me these things, Mark?"
"Did you?"
"No," Alan said, his voice sounding odd. "But it was kind of funny, now that you mention it. I said there were 643 beans in the bowl, and the correct number was 634. It was the closest guess by quite a bit."
"Holy hell!" Mark said. "Kid, that's incredible! Have you ever been in any other contests?"
"There was a long silence while Alan thought. "I entered a lottery at the Jacksonville State Fair once, but I didn't win. I don't go much for contests, really. I don't know why I went for this one ..." He stopped. "Well, actually, I guess I do ..."
"Why? Some cute little thing talk you into it?"
"Uh huh." Alan sounded embarrassed. "She was in a bathing suit ... kind of a skimpy one, too. Just trying to sell her pools, I know, but ..."
"Yeah," Linley said, amused in spite of himself. "You don't hafta explain it to me. I'm kind of a sucker along those lines, m'self." He sat up, rubbing his jaw. "Alan ..."
The boy was watching him, a puzzled look on his face. "Is something wrong?"
"I dunno." Linley scowled at him. "I been wonderin' about that business with my blaster. Didn't it strike you as awful damn lucky when the critter charged us an' I dropped my blaster, that it should just happen to go sailin' over an' land practically on your toes?"
"I don't see what you're driving at," Alan said, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
Linley shook his head and lay down again. "Nah. My imagination's workin' overtime. Forget it."
Alan opened his mouth, then closed it again. Silence fell. Around them the night insects buzzed softly.
"Mark," Alan said.
"Yeah?"
"What's he going to do with me?"
"Oh." Linley cleared his throat. "Well, he's going to interrogate you. Then, as soon as he realizes you're clean, he'll lay off."
"But why interrogate me?" The boy's voice sounded a little panicky. "Can't he just see everything he wants by reading my mind?"
Linley cleared his throat again. "Not all the time. Some Terrans have minds that are kinda hard to read. And others -- Undergrounders, mostly -- have what they call shieldin'. Mind shields -- it's a conditionin' process that keeps 'em from bein' read. Sometimes it's pretty hard for a Jil to detect -- unless the Terran's put under a little strain -- like interrogation."
"Oh." Silence again. Linley could almost feel the boy's fright.
"Take it easy," he said quickly. "You'll get through it okay. Ol' Salthvor's a sharp cookie. He'll figure out quick that you don't know nothin' an' lay off. You'll see."
Again silence. Then: "Mark?"
"Yeah?"
"I've never seen a Jilectan. How do I act? Am I supposed to kneel to him?"
"Yeah." Linley was grateful for the change of subject, no matter how slight. "Kneel, call him M'lord, and for the luvvamike be respectful. Don't lose your temper and sass him."
"I wouldn't have the nerve," Alan said. "What else do I do?"
"Just obey him. Whatever he says, do it. Don't argue."
"Okay." Alan fell silent. Linley lay still a moment then got up and strode over to him, going to one knee beside his blanket swaddled from.
"Alan?"
Alan lay back, eyes fixed on the trees above. The night was very still except for the sounds of Midgard's nightlife. The moons shone brightly through a break in the matted branches overhead. Linley stared at the boy, feeling suddenly ashamed -- ashamed of his profession, which forced him to do things like this to eighteen-year-old kids. He rested a hand on Alan's shoulder. The boy was rigid beneath his touch. "Alan ..."
Alan's shackled hands gripped his wrist tightly, but his prisoner didn't look at him.
"Listen, you better try'n get some sleep."
Alan nodded and let go. Feeling wretched, Mark stood up. "Good night. Don't worry. You're gonna be okay."
"G'night, Mark."
Linley stepped across the dying embers of the campfire and lay down again, wrapping himself tightly in the blanket. The image of Alan's face floated before his eyes and he blinked, trying to erase it. It was nearly an hour before he was able to do so.
V
Alan Westover lay still, gazing up into the branches overhead. Except for the soft murmur of the stream and the buzz of night insects the darkness was very still.
Strike Commander Linley lay on the ground less than two meters away. The Strike Commander's eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep. Poor Mark! He was hating himself for his enforced role, but still seemed unwilling to do anything about it.
And tomorrow was the reckoning. They would reach the ship, and he would die at the hands of Lord Salthvor. Alan had no doubt of that at all. What would the Strike Commander do when he saw his prisoner placed in the interrogation chair?
He shuddered. In all probability he would do nothing. Linley was clearly in awe of the Jilectan's psychic powers, and he was unlikely to risk his own life for the life of a kid he'd known for so sort a time. The Terrans who worked for the Jilectans were a hard-nosed lot, if the stories he had heard were true ...
Alan turned over restlessly. He must escape. Tonight was his very last chance. He would make the attempt as soon as Mark was asleep. He lay still, waiting for the sound of Linley's deep, even breathing, but it didn't come. An hour went by, then another. Alan felt drowsiness creep up on him, and shook himself angrily awake. He mustn't sleep. If he did he would lose his final opportunity, and his life.
He ached with weariness, and the murmur of the stream was soft and strangely lulling. Once again he shook himself awake.
What would happen to Linley if he escaped? The question nagged at him. In spite of the circumstances he felt a deep liking for the man, and a heartfelt admiration for him. Somehow, Alan could not picture anything -- not even Lord Salthvor -- being able to overpower the Strike Commander. And, illogically enough, the feeling also persisted that if Linley were there he would be able to protect Alan from harm as well. Stupid, he knew, to feel that way. Linley would be as powerless as any other Terran where Jilectans were concerned ...
Would Mark be executed if he escaped? Again the question returned. Were the aliens as grossly unfair as that? Mark must be a valuable officer, and a resourceful, intelligent person to have attained the rank of Strike Commander at such a youthful age. Would the Jilectans sacrifice such a useful member of their armed forces because of a single mistake? Surely not! Maybe a reprimand and a reduction in rank, but probably nothing more ...
He heard Linley stir restlessly. Wasn't he ever going to sleep? The man must be made of iron to keep going through the dense forest all day, and then toss and turn half the night.
Dreams, creeping over him. Alan started awake with a jolt, certain for a moment that someone had called his name. He lay completely still, orienting himself. It was late; Midgard's moons had disappeared. Morning wasn't far away.
The realization sent adrenaline jarring through his bloodstream and he turned his head, staring at Linley's shadowy form in the dimness. The man must be asleep by now, he thought. Anyway, he would soon find out. He couldn't wait any longer.
For another long moment he lay still, listening intently. Linley gave a faint snore and turned over. Very quietly, Alan sat up, trying to make no noise at all, and reached with his cuffed hands toward the rope confining his legs. The bindings were not tight, but the knots were fastened securely at the back of his ankles, well out of reach of his straining fingers. Linley was smart, Alan thought bleakly. For all his kindness and sympathy, he was still a patrolman, pragmatic and unyieldingly efficient at his job.
He must get the ropes off! Alan stretched again, reaching frantically toward the knots, his muscles popping with effort. He could just reach them with his fingertips. Linley muttered something in his sleep and Alan froze, glancing quickly at him.
Linley became still once more. Alan relaxed, starting to reach for the knots again.
And suddenly he was free. The cords fell from his ankles as if by magic, and Alan found himself staring in wonder at the loosened coil. The ropes had been untied. Unable to see them, tugging at them with the tips of his fingers, he must somehow have accomplished the task.
Well, there was no time to wonder about it. Hardly daring to breathe, he got softly to his feet, gritting his teeth against the shooting pains in his ankle. Could he walk on the foot?
He had to! Biting his lip, Alan glanced at the crutch beside him. After an instant's consideration he bent down and picked it up, propping it beneath his arm. It was difficult to use the device with his hands cuffed, but not impossible. Gingerly, favoring the injured ankle, he limped quietly toward the trees.
Linley grunted and turned over again, muttering. Alan froze, trying to quiet his breathing. He wondered briefly what Linley would do if he caught his prisoner trying to escape. Alan had heard gruesome tales of the Viceregal Peace Patrol, but now, looking at Linley's sleeping face, he couldn't believe the man would do him any physical harm. Even back in the brambles, when he had richly deserved it, Mark hadn't actually struck him. Alan winced at the memory of his angry words, feeling an irrational sense of betrayal. Perhaps by running away he was condemning Mark Linley to death, but if he didn't escape his own death was certain, and he wouldn't have another chance. Alan hardened his heart and limped slowly away into the trees.
He went carefully, trying to be absolutely silent, favoring his sprained ankle. The crutch turned suddenly and he went down, scuffing both elbows painfully on a rotten stump. His clutching hands descended on something cold, sinuous and slippery, and he jerked back, scrubbing them hastily across his breeches. There was a noisy scuffling sound and the creature scuttled away, giving voice to a rasping croak.
Alan remained completely still on his hands and knees, expecting any second to hear Linley charging through the underbrush toward him. Tiny sparks twinkled in the darkness before his eyes. He held his breath.
Nothing happened. Very slowly he let out his breath and reached for the crutch. The device was broken, the cross stick completely gone. Alan felt blindly around for it without success.
Well, there was no help for it. He was going to have to walk without it. How far he would get on his injured ankle he didn't know, but he had to try.
Surprisingly the ankle felt better as he got to his feet again. Some of the stiffness seemed to have departed with use, and he went forward feeling his way with outstretched hands.
He had gone about two kilometers when he stopped short, the breath catching in his throat.
He had known the sensation before, almost as if he was hearing something that was not yet within earshot. Something had warned him, some instinct for danger. He listened intently, senses straining. He could almost hear the thing, but ...
It was nothing, he told himself at last. Nothing at all -- a false alarm triggered by strain and fatigue. He hesitated another long moment, then took a step forward. The ground seemed to disintegrate beneath his feet and he plunged downward into darkness.
It wasn't a long drop but it seemed long, and the impact knocked the breath out of him. He sat up, gasping, and strained his eyes to see through the blackness.
Nothing. The darkness was impenetrable. As he regained his breath, Alan realized his ankle was throbbing again. He reached down to rub it, and his hand brushed against something cold and dry that lay on the ground beside him. His fingers closed around it. Even in the darkness it was easily identifiable. It was a bone, about the size of a man's femur.
The impression of danger was intensifying, and for a moment panic clutched at him. He began to struggle uselessly against the restrainers on his wrists, bruising his flesh against the unyielding metal. Something was watching him. He could feel it.
"Mark!" he shouted. "Mark! Help me!"
There was no answer. Linley was much too far away to hear him.
Alan fought down panic and reached out, groping around in the darkness. More bones -- dozens of them. They lay in heaps all around him. He swallowed convulsively and got cautiously to his feet. Hands outstretched, he limped slowly forward, feeling before him with his manacled hands. Bones rattled around his feet.
He had taken only three steps when he came to a wall. Alan ran his hands over it with care. It was earthen but smooth and solid, and he couldn't reach the top.
He knew now what had happened. He had fallen into a pit -- the trap of some animal, as evidenced by the bones that littered it. Alan swallowed again, trying to think. After a moment he began to feel his way around the perimeter, the impression of danger growing stronger by the second. The wall gritted under his fingers, then, without warning, it vanished completely.
He explored with his hands at the point where the wall ended. It was a narrow tunnel that seemed to extend some way back. Alan felt cautiously around the opening, finding that it was large enough to enter if he stooped, and perhaps a meter off the floor of the pit. He stood still, wondering what he should do.
Then he heard the movement within -- a dry, rustling noise, and something that sounded to his overwrought nerves like a soft, gloating chuckle.
Alan backed quickly away, but his ankle betrayed him and he stumbled, going heavily to his knees. His hands closed around a large bone.
He staggered to his feet, clutching the bone awkwardly in his cuffed hands. Lights danced in the darkness before him and he blinked, shaking his head to clear his vision. Two of the lights remained, floating on a level with his head. Alan blinked again.
They weren't lights. They were eyes, round and red like glowing coals, and they were coming slowly toward him out of the tunnel.
VI
Strike Commander Linley was dreaming. Alan Westover's face was a wavering image before his eyes, but all else was darkness. The pain in his ankle had returned, twinging intermittently. Fear tugged at his senses, and there was a faint, uneasy sensation of impending doom. The feeling grew steadily, until terror encompassed him.
Suddenly, he was falling and once again Alan's face came clear with a heart-shaking jolt. The boy was near, and he could see his green eyes glowing faintly like a cat's eyes in the surrounding darkness. Linley's ankle throbbed unbearably and he moaned, opening his eyes.
Damn that ankle! He reached sleepily for it, rubbing it. It had been hurting on and off since Alan had fallen on top of him two days ago after killing the attacking dinosaur.
Alan. Linley blinked drowsily, seeing the boy's face sharp and clear before his eyes now. Was he still dreaming? He was awake, but the image persisted. Dammitall! Why couldn't he put the boy out of his mind? He was just a prisoner, like any of a thousand that Linley had brought in during his years with the Patrol. Sure, Alan was a nice kid and seemed to like him, but that was no reason to go soft on the boy. He wouldn't be after this, Linley decided firmly. Today he would treat the kid as he would have treated any prisoner, with the same dispassionate efficiency he always employed. It would be stupid, after all, to give Alan false hopes. Stupid and cruel ...
"Mark!" It was Alan's voice. "Mark, help me!"
Instantly Linley was on his feet, blaster leveled. He spun toward Alan, yanking out his handlight and flicking it on.
Alan was gone. Only a tangled coil of rope and a crumpled blanket met his affronted gaze. Mark swore.
But the kid had to be near! Linley had heard his voice clearly, and the boy's image still floated before his eyes. He was scared, too, that was for sure. The impression of impending danger that he had felt in the dream was now intensifying, but the danger wasn't focused on Mark. It was Alan who was in trouble.
It didn't occur to him until later to question how he knew. He shoved the blaster into its holster, snatched up his small pack, and charged into the trees, following with unerring accuracy the path taken only a short time ago by Alan Westover.
"Alan!" he shouted. "Alan, where are you?"
There was no reply. Swearing incoherently, Linley ripped and tore his way through tangled underbrush. Alan was straight ahead, of that he was certain -- as certain as he had been days ago that his quarry had undoubtedly passed along the trail he followed. Instinct, he had called it, unable to explain it even to himself. A hunch. Shouting Alan's name, he charged ahead.
It was some minutes later before he heard an answer.
"Mark! Mark, is that you?"
"Alan!" he bellowed. "Where are you?"
"Be careful!" came the shouted reply. "There's a ..."
It was too late. Charging forward toward Alan's voice, Linley's foot came down on empty space. He snatched wildly for support, but there was none and he hurtled downward.
He landed hard upon something that yielded instantly beneath his weight. There was a yelp, cut off in the middle. Linley rolled to his feet and flashed the handlight around.
Alan was huddled on the ground beside him, clutching his ribs and making crowing noises as he tried to catch his breath.
"Sorry, kid," Linley said. "Are you all right? What a damn fool stunt to try! I oughtta ..."
"Behind you!" Alan squeaked.
Linley spun. Out of the darkness two glowing red eyes were moving slowly toward him, and a soft, dry chuckle reached his ears.
The blaster was in his hand as he brought the handlight up to spotlight the creature. As the beam touched it, the thing leaped forward, its chuckle rising in pitch to a gurgle of anticipation. Linley caught a confused impression of slavering jaws armed with white, gleaming fangs, and his finger jerked on the trigger.
He'd forgotten about setting the weapon on maximum, and the resulting roar of sound nearly deafened him in the enclosed space. A sheet of flame rocketed from the muzzle, singeing his eyebrows, but the charging body was virtually incinerated. A few charred ashes floated gently to the floor of the pit.
Alan was sitting up, coughing and wiping soot from his face.
"Good grief!" he managed, his voice sounding faint through the ringing in Mark's ears. "Are you sure it's dead? Maybe you'd better shoot it again, just to be sure." He paused, beginning to laugh breathlessly with relief. "That is, if you can find anything left of it."
"You young nitwit!" Linley blazed. "Whatta you mean runnin' off like that? Tryin' to getcherself killed?"
Alan's smile faded and Linley grimaced, realizing what he had said. "Hell, kid, I'm sorry."
The cadet shrugged. "Forget it. It's all right." He began to rub his ankle.
"How's the foot?" Mark knelt beside him, setting his light on the floor of the pit.
"It'll be all right." Alan looked up at him with an understanding expression. "Don't feel so bad, Mark. I know you have to take me in. It isn't your fault."
Linley looked miserably away, all his earlier resolutions evaporating. "Blast it! It was easier when you were yellin' an' screamin' at me! Willya quit bein' so blasted nice about it?"
There was a brief silence. Linley cursed mentally at himself and the Fates that had seen fit to get him into this mess. He became aware that Alan was looking at him curiously.
"Mark, how did you find me?"
He stared at the boy, an utterly appalling realization washing over him. He knew for certain now why the Jilectans wanted the cadet so badly. Alan had communicated with him telepathically. The call for help he had heard back at their campsite could have been nothing else. He shouldn't have been able to hear the boy from that distance, not in dense forestland, and yet the shout had been loud and distinct.
Alan Westover was a psychic, like the Jilectans themselves. There could no longer be any doubt.
Then another thought occurred to him, almost making the hair rise on the back of his neck. He had received the telepathic communication! Did that mean he was a psychic, too? Impossible! He had been in the Viceregal Patrol for ten years and had been in the company of numerous Jilectans during that time. If he were a psychic they would have detected the fact long ago. Then what was going on?
Alan's hand touched his wrist and he jumped convulsively, his gaze snapping up to meet his prisoner's. The boy was looking worried.
"Mark, are you all right?"
Dare he tell the kid? Tell him what? That he was a psychic, as Linley had half-suspected, and he'd better prepare himself for a slow, agonizing death in the interrogation chair?
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Alan sounded scared.
Linley averted his eyes. "We better get outta here."
The boy's manacled hands gripped his wrist. "Mark, what's wrong?"
"Nothin'," Linley said. "C'mon."
His prisoner didn't move. Linley stood up, reaching down to lift him to his feet. "I said come on! We gotta figure a way outta this place."
Alan was looking directly at him, and Linley squirmed, recalling the disconcerting ability of psychics to sense a lie. No wonder Alan had gotten the better of him in that argument the other day. He had known exactly where to strike to hit his captor's sorest points ...
"Mark ..."
"Yeah?"
"How long will Lord Salthvor keep the thumbscrews on?"
Linley looked away. "Not long."
"Mark, what's wrong?"
He stared fixedly at the pit wall. "Nothin'."
Silence. His ankle twinged violently, and he cursed under his breath. Then Alan spoke again.
"Can you stay with me during the interrogation?"
Linley stared at him in horror. "I can't!"
"Please." Although Alan didn't raise his voice, the fact somehow made the plea more intense. "Please don't leave me alone with him."
"I won't be able to help you!" Linley said, desperately. "Salthvor does what he pleases. Nothin' I say'll stop him. I don't think I can stand it, watchin' you ..."
"You don't have to say anything. Just stay with me. If I'm alone I'll go to pieces. I know I will."
Linley gripped him by the arms. "Everybody goes to pieces. There's no shame in it." He bit off the sentence and released the boy, shoving him back. Alan sat down hard on the floor of the pit.
"Cut it out!" He spoke angrily. "You're tearin' me apart, an' there's nothin' I can do about it!"
Alan sat still, gaze fixed on his captor. "Please, Mark?"
"Dammit t'hell!" Linley began to pace. "Do you know what you're askin'? Suppose Salthvor doesn't want me there? Suppose he says no?"
Still, Alan didn't speak. Linley stopped pacing and swore helplessly.
"Okay," he said, aware of a vast sense of futility. "I'll try."
The relief on his prisoner's face was almost too much to stand. A sudden wild idea occurred to him and he stared down at the boy, a muscle starting to jump rhythmically in one cheek. Alan was smiling, beginning to rise unsteadily to his feet. Linley reached down a hand to help him up and remained gripping his wrists tightly, his mind racing.
Could he stand to watch Alan in the interrogation chair? Could he? The boy was a psychic. The fact spelled his death warrant. The Jilectans were the dominant species because of their psychic powers. They could not afford to have competitors.
"Thanks, Mark," Alan was saying soberly. "I'll be okay, now. Don't worry."
Linley looked down at the restrainers on his prisoner's wrists. For a long moment he stared at the shackles, and a great, helpless rage seemed to engulf him. Damn the Jils! Damn the Viceroy, and Salthvor, and the whole rotten species!
The muscle in his cheek jumped again. "Alan," he said, tightly.
"Yes?"
The muscle jumped. Almost involuntarily, Linley's hand moved toward the keys at his belt.
There was a shout from above and a light blazed on, spotlighting them.
"Patrol! Drop your weapons!"
Linley froze, and his eyes met Alan's.
"Sorry," he muttered. "The jig's up."
"Identify yourselves!" the voice from above barked down at them.
"Strike Commander Linley!" Mark almost snarled in return. "Take that blaster off me, you idiot!"
"Sorry, sir." The blaster disappeared, and the light shifted to Alan. "That him, sir?"
"Yeah," Mark said, dismally. "That's him."
VII
Lord Salthvor met them in his private lounge aboard the "Wolverine", and Strike Commander Linley came to attention as his patrolmen shoved Alan roughly forward.
Like many of his species, Salthvor stood well over two meters in height, dwarfing even Linley's muscular, two meter frame as he rose leisurely from the easy chair in which he had been seated. Jilectans, as a species, were very light, ranging in coloring from near albino to that of a Terran of northern European descent, and Salthvor was very typical of his kind. Flaming red hair topped his head, kinked and curled into the very latest fashion, and his robes were of the finest material, twinkling with tiny gems as he moved. More gems flashed from his fingers, and from the hilt of the blaster at his hip. He held a fine, crystal goblet in one six-fingered hand, half filled with a clear, reddish liquid. A Procyon servant stood obsequiously two paces to his left and rear, holding a silver tray in his taloned hands.
Salthvor's cold, blue eyes flicked contemptuously over the prisoner. He held out the goblet, and the Procyon moved quickly forward to receive it. The Jilectan continued to survey Alan, not taking his eyes from the boy's small from.
"Good work, Strike Commander," he said.
"Thank you, M'lord," Linley said, woodenly.
Salthvor took two steps froward, his movements breathtakingly fast, and stood before Alan. The boy shuddered, unable to retreat, supported as he was between two patrolmen. Linley forced himself to stand still, thanking his lucky stars that very few Jilectans were empaths. If the alien were to sense the emotion radiating from him at this moment he might be in real trouble.
"Alan Westover." The Jilectan's voice was soft and gentle. He reached forward one slim hand, placing it against the prisoner's temple. The boy flinched beneath his touch.
"M'lord ..." His voice shook. "Please, M'lord, I haven't done anything."
"Be quiet." The alien's features had become, if possible, colder than before, and he removed his hand. The patrolmen shoved Alan to his knees before the Jilectan.
"You are guilty, Alan Westover," Salthvor said.
"No!" Alan cried. "No, M'lord, please! Read my mind! I haven't ..."
"I have already done so, Terran. You are guilty. You well be taken for interrogation in two hours."
Alan was almost in tears. "M'lord ..."
Salthvor smiled thinly at the prisoner. "I told you to be quiet, Terran. You would do well to obey me."
"But what have I done, M'lord? Please tell me!"
Salthvor kicked the boy, knocking him backwards. Alan rolled to his stomach, gasping for breath. The alien turned to the patrolmen. "Take him away. Clean him up and feed him. Have him ready in two hours."
The men lifted Alan to his feet and led him away. Salthvor turned to look briefly at Mark. "Prepare to departure as soon as the last search team returns, Strike Commander."
"Yes, M'lord," Linley said, expressionlessly.
The Jilectan turned and strode out of the room. Mark stared after him, hating him.
**********
Strike Commander Linley entered his quarters and flopped down on his bunk. He stared morosely at the ceiling. The door to his valet's quarters opened softly, and Patterson stuck his head through. "Can I get you anything, sir?"
"Nah." Linley jerked his head at the man. "I'll callya if I needya, Ed. Scram."
"Yes, sir." The door closed. Linley glared after him. Damn the guy! Patterson always managed to butt in when Mark didn't want him. He rolled over to stare at the wall. The communicator beeped.
"Strike Commander? This is Subcommander Wolenski."
Linley reached over automatically, pressing the button. "Hi, Wolly."
"Good to have you back, sir, we were worried. How are you feeling?"
"Tired." Linley glowered at the unit. "Listen, Wol, departure's in about three hours -- soon as the last team gets back. Can you handle it? I'm feelin' sorta wiped out."
"Yes, sir, you take it easy. You've had a rough couple of days."
"Thanks." Linley switched off the communicator and lay back on his bunk again. For the space of three minutes he remained motionless, scowling at the bulkhead. His ankle twinged violently and he swore softly, trying to erase the image of Alan Westover's young, terrified face that seemed to hover insubstantially before him.
He swore again, explosively, and tried to reason with himself.
"Look, Mark, ol' boy, the kid's a criminal. Just 'cause he says he ain't don't mean he ain't. He ran when the Patrol came after him, and he did his level best to escape. He was sure even before we got back here that he was up for execution. Everythin' points to his guilt. Why the devil should Salthvor lie ..."
Linley closed his eyes. Salthvor had not been lying -- at least not from his point of view. Alan was guilty, all right -- no question of that. He was a psychic, like the Jilectans, themselves, a threat to their supremacy which must be eliminated without delay ...
He sat up abruptly, slamming his fist down on the bedside table so violently that he jarred the lamp loose from its magnetic grip and sent it clattering to the deck. He stood up, kicking it savagely aside, and strode over to his dresser to glare at the unshaven image in the mirror before him.
"You damn fool!" he said forcefully to the reflection. "Are you gonna throw away everythin' you got for one brainless kid?"
There was a long silence. Linley became aware that his ankle was twinging again. Then he turned suddenly and strode across the room. There were several things he had to do in the next couple of hours.
VIII
Alan Westover sat disconsolately in his prison. A tray of food lay untouched on the table, along with a basin of water. The restrainers had been removed, but a Viceregal patrolman, his silver helmet bearing the insignia of a second classer, stood beside the door, watching him.
"Eat, kid," the guard said.
Alan pushed at the food with his fork and set the utensil down on the plate. "I'm not hungry."
"His Lordship said you were to eat. So eat."
Alan glanced indifferently at the food. "No, thank you."
The guard's lips tightened in annoyance. "Listen, you little jerk, you'd better start cooperating. Things'll go easier on you if you do. His Lordship doesn't like uncooperative prisoners."
"It won't matter," said Alan. "He doesn't like me anyway."
The patrolman grinned. "You noticed that, huh? Can't say I blame him. I don't like you much, either."
"I think you're pretty terrific, too," Alan said, witheringly.
"Eat," the patrolman repeated.
Alan glanced at the man, noting absently that the nameplate on his helmet identified him as Parks. "What are you going to do if I won't?"
Parks grinned, taking a step forward. "If you won't, I'm going to have some fun."
Alan considered, then picked up the fork. The guard paused, grin broadening. "That's a good boy."
Charming fellow, Alan thought, dabbing reluctantly at his food. Then he glanced at his hands. They were black with soot, and the sight sent him back to the moments in the creature's pit after Mark's arrival. Linley was a Jilectan flunky like all the rest, and yet when he had catapulted down into the thing's den with him, Alan had felt only a sense of overwhelming relief. It wasn't his captor who had arrived. It was a friend, and suddenly everything was going to be all right.
But where was Linley now? The Strike Commander had promised to be with him during the interrogation but as yet, since he had been half-carried from the Jilectan's lounge by two indifferent patrolmen, Alan had seen no trace of him. Would Linley honor the promise he had made, or had the man's apparent kindness been a clever act to keep the prisoner passive until he could be delivered to his executioner? Mark had certainly seemed indifferent enough during the remainder of the trip back, not even glancing at Alan as the patrolmen hustled him along. Alan's heart sank at the memory. There was no hope left at all.
The waiting was unbearable. His mind supplied him with gruesome images -- tales he had heard of Jilectan interrogations -- and he fought back panic. He thought of the gallant storybook hero, who stoically endures torture and goes to his death without a whimper, but somehow it didn't make him feel at all brave. He had never been so scared in his life.
"Stop dreaming and eat!" Parks' voice snapped him back to the present. Alan glanced at him resentfully and poked at the petrified slab of meat, clay-like mashed potatoes, and congealed gravy. Somehow, he couldn't summon much interest. He put the fork down.
The guard took another step forward, grinning slightly. "I'm not going to tell you again, Peewee. Eat, or be force fed."
"Okay, I'm eating." Alan took a bite of the rubbery material and chewed valiantly. Whatever it was, they sure hadn't gone to much trouble with its preparation. He swallowed, and nearly choked.
"What's he going to do with me?" he asked. "Do you know?"
"Yeah, I know. The guard grinned nastily. "You'll scream your brains out, shrimp."
Alan gulped, and tried to suppress the desperation in his voice. "Can't you at least tell me what this is all about?"
Parks shrugged. "I never ask questions about things that don't concern me. Eat."
"But I haven't done anything wrong." Alan stared unseeing at the food. "I still don't know why I'm here."
"Neither do I," the guard said. "Eat."
"And you don't care," Alan said, looking loathingly at the man.
"That's right," Parks agreed. "Eat."
Alan felt a flash of anger, followed swiftly by an idea. After all, what did he have to lose? And Parks didn't seem all that bright. He might just fall for it. He threw his fork on the floor. "Eat it yourself!"
Parks took another step forward. "Okay boy, you asked for it."
Alan surveyed him scornfully. "And what are you going to do about it, Jil lover?"
The guard flushed. "What did you call me, runt?"
"You heard me, bootlicker!" Alan stood up, bracing himself on the table. "You can't blow your nose without asking your boss's permission! And you know what we call you 'trols at Terran Space Academy! We write it all over the latrine walls!"
Parks came around the table toward him and Alan circled, favoring his injured foot. The man was easily twenty centimeters taller than he and muscled like a wrestler, but Alan was much too desperate to care. If he could just make Parks mad enough ...
"Come on, you big trenchcrawler," he taunted, "I'm not afraid of you! You're still on your master's leash!" The trenchcrawlers were known throughout the Sector for their filthy habits, cowardly ways, and preference for raw sewage.
Parks's face got redder. "Just wait 'til I get my hands on you ..."
Alan sneered openly. "Kind of old for a second classer, aren't you? What's the matter, Parks? Aren't you even a good toadie?" He whistled. "Come on, Trenchie, heel! Sit up and speak!"
Parks favored him with an unflattering description of his personal habits and swept the light table aside. Alan moved in the same instant, deftly caught the plate of food as it slid from the tabletop and hurled it at the patrolman.
It struck Parks on the side of his helmet, spattering the dark visor with mashed potatoes and gravy. Alan seized the tray from the floor, swinging it with all his strength.
It bounced off the silver helmet with a heavy, metallic clunk. Parks swore furiously and made a grab for him. Alan dodged sideways, but his hurt ankle betrayed him and he went to one knee with a bitten off gasp. The patrolman was upon him instantly, dragging him to his feet. Alan jerked his head back, as a fist the size of a small ham caught him a glancing blow across the mouth, and managed to wiggle free, scrambling to one side. Parks was after him at once. Alan made it to his feet, ducked beneath the man's arm and made a dash for the door. The panel was undoubtedly locked, but the patrolman was off guard, now, and careless with anger. If he could just manage to grab the man's blaster ...
He never had the chance to find out if his idea would work. The door slid open as he reached it, and he catapulted straight into the arms of another patrolman. The newcomer gave a surprised exclamation and caught him, spinning him efficiently around and twisting his arms skillfully behind him. Alan fought frantically, kicking backward with all his strength. His heel connected with a kneecap, and the man holding him gave a startled grunt. The grip on his arms tightened painfully.
"Cool it, kid!" a voice growled.
Abruptly, Alan became passive. Tilting his head back, he saw above him the visored face of Strike Commander Linley. Parks came to attention at the sight of his commanding officer, gravy-smeared helmet in one hand. The Strike Commander shoved Alan forward into the room. "What the devil's goin' on here, Parks?
Parks glowered at Alan. "The prisoner became difficult, sir. I was trying to restrain him."
"So you beat him up, huh? I've warned you about that before, Patrolman." Linley wiped blood from Alan's mouth. "You okay, kid?"
Alan nodded mutely, looking up at him. For all Parks's size, the Strike Commander was even taller and twice as imposing. Parks wilted visibly under Linley's level stare. "I only hit him once, sir. He called me a ..."
"What the blazes is that stuff all over your helmet?" Linley demanded.
"Gravy, sir. He threw his plate at me."
The Strike Commander snorted. "Clean it off, quick. His Lordship's waitin'." He held Alan's wrists together with one hand and unclipped the restrainers from his belt. "Hurry up, Patrolman, or you can explain the delay to him."
Parks started to obey, and Linley bent Alan forward, fastening his hands behind him with dispassionate efficiency. "Move it, Parks," he said.
Alan felt a jab of fear. Mark's tone and attitude had altered completely. He was no longer Alan's friend and protector but a patrolman, hard, efficient, and totally unsympathetic. How could he ever get through the upcoming interrogation, even with Mark there, if Linley acted like this?
Parks wiped the last of the gravy from his helmet and, with a last glare at Alan, strapped the headgear into place. The two patrolmen took him by the arms and ushered him through the door. Other patrolmen were watching, but he hardly noticed them. Mark's hand was like iron on his upper arm and the Strike Commander didn't look at him as they strode down the corridor at a brisk walk, Alan stumbling and dragging his feet. Parks jerked his arm brutally. "Cut it out, you! Walk!"
Linley's face remained indifferent, and Alan fought down panic once more. Parks grinned maliciously at him. "Believe me, shrimp, this is one interrogation I'm going to enjoy every minute of!"
"Here," Linley said.
They stopped before a closed door and Parks pressed a button. I was told he was going to 5-B, sir."
The door slid open with a soft hiss and the men pushed Alan inside. Linley glanced at Parks. "Chair in B's on the blink again."
The door slid shut behind them. They had entered a small room, Alan saw, in the center of which was a chair with straps fastened to the arms, legs, and back. Alan shrank against Linley.
"No!"
Parks laughed and propelled him forward, struggling, toward the chair.
"Just a second, Patrolman," Linley's voice said.
Parks turned. "Yessir?" His jaw dropped at the sight of the blaster in Linley's hand.
"Let him go," the Strike Commander said.
Parks dropped Alan's arm. Alan moved quickly away from the patrolman, and Linley's weapon hummed softly. Parks collapsed to the floor.
Alan stared at Linley, wondering for an instant if he was having hallucinations. "Mark, what are you doing?
Mark came over to him, turned him briskly around, and unfastened the restrainers. "What the hell's it look like I'm doin'? We gotta move fast. We got some margin, but the Jil could catch on any second." He produced a blaster from behind a device, the purpose of which Alan didn't even want to guess. "Take this." Without pausing, he pressed the button by the door and it whisked open before them. "This way."
"Where are we going?" Alan asked.
"Lifeboat deck." Mark gripped him around the ribcage. "I hate to hurry you, but we're short o' time."
"I'll make it," Alan said.
They exited the interrogation room and headed down the corridor as fast as Alan could walk. The corridor was empty, except for them. Mark gripped him around the torso, half-carrying him toward the nearest lift.
As they approached, Alan saw the Strike Commander thumb the button on a small, handheld device. The lift door opened immediately.
"What's that?" he asked as Linley hustled him into the car.
"Strike Commander's pass key," Mark told him. He pressed a combination into the device and the lift door closed. They began to drop.
Alan gulped, the enormity of Linley's action dawning on him. "Mark -- I ... I don't know what to say."
Linley flushed. "Shuddup, kid."
"Just one thing. If this doesn't work ... well, I ... I just want you to know ..."
Mark threw a punch at him. "Button your lip, youngster. I hate bein' thanked."
"All right," Alan said.
The lift came to a halt and Mark touched his elbow again. "Stay right beside me."
"Okay." Alan drew a deep breath as the doors slid open.
IX
Mark Linley stepped out of the lift. The corridors were deserted, as they usually were just prior to takeoff. He had counted on that when he had thrown his spanner in the works. The crew of the ship waited at their posts, unaware of their Strike Commander's change of heart. He and Alan need not fear the crew. The only factor that he could not neutralize was Salthvor, but the Jilectan was not a strong telepath, and they needed only a very few minutes.
Linley strode down the corridor toward the escape craft hangars, helping Alan along with an arm around his ribcage. In less than two minutes they would be safe ...
As they reached a bend of the corridor Alan stiffened, voicing a sharp cry of warning. Mark jerked back instinctively, reaching automatically for his weapon.
It saved his life. There was the sharp crack of a blaster and something struck his shoulder with numbing force. The shock of the impact spun him around, slamming him into Alan. The boy was hurled against a bulkhead with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs.
Mark saw the rest through a shifting blur. Salthvor strode into the corridor, a patrolman at his side. The man came swiftly forward, removed the blaster from Alan's belt, and tossed the weapon away. Alan aimed a wild swing at the man. The patrolman stepped casually back, avoiding the blow with ease, his blaster still covering the fugitives. Mark's weapon lay on the deck, and the patrolman kicked it over beside Alan's.
The Jilectan stepped forward, his icy gaze sweeping the scene. Alan scrambled backward toward Linley, interposing himself between Mark and the alien.
Salthvor raised a thin eyebrow. "How touching." His gaze flicked to Mark. "You appear to have lost your way, Strike Commander Linley. This is not the interrogation room."
Mark couldn't answer. He fought to keep the alien's face in focus. Salthvor was continuing. "When the prisoner failed to appear promptly, it occurred to me that he might have been diverted." His voice fell slightly. "You should have listened to me, Strike Commander. I warned you that he was dangerous."
Alan's shoulders straightened. "That's right,' he said suddenly. "I belong to the Terran Underground, M'lord, and I forced him to accompany me."
"Forget it, kid," Mark croaked. "It ain't no use."
Salthvor spoke to the patrolman. "Bring the boy to the interrogation room. I will meet you there momentarily."
"Yes, M'lord." The patrolman managed to salute without taking his blaster off the prisoners. "And Strike Commander Linley, M'lord?"
Salthvor glanced briefly at Mark. "Kill him."
"Yes, M'lord."
What happened next would remain vividly etched in Mark's memory for the rest of his life. He heard Alan's sharp intake of breath and saw the alien start to turn away. The patrolman leveled his blaster. "Get out of the way, boy."
"No!" Alan shouted.
Unbelieving, Mark saw the blaster wrench itself from the patrolman's grasp. The man gave a startled exclamation and grabbed wildly for it as it leaped, spinning, across two meters of empty space, straight into Alan's waiting hands. With breathtaking speed, Salthvor's blaster was out and swinging toward Alan. The weapons came up together.
The Jilectans' world was denser than Terra, its gravity greater, and their reflexes half again as fast as a human's. No Terran had ever been known to outdraw a Jilectan before. But Alan did.
Salthvor was hurled backward, sprawling ungracefully on the deck. With a speed almost equal to that of the Jilectan, himself, the blaster in Alan's hands swung to cover the patrolman while the first shot was still echoing. The man was staring at the crumpled body of the alien in stark horror. He looked from Salthvor to Alan and swallowed convulsively. "My god, you've killed him!" he said, faintly.
"Get over here, mister!" Alan snapped. "Help Mark to the lifeboat!"
The patrolman gaped at him. "What?"
"Move!" Alan barked, his voice almost unrecognizable with the snap of command. "Help Strike Commander Linley to the lifeboat. Now!"
The patrolman supported Mark solicitously through the hanger doors to the lock of the little craft. Alan followed, his blaster aimed at the man's spine. The hatch opened, and he half-carried Linley through.
