Pawn: 2/4
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Alan climbed out of the aircar and raised a hand to Mark as his partner lifted off. The vehicle moved away to the north. As the aircar disappeared into the swirling clouds of flakes, Alan clutched the cloak about his body and strode up the walk toward the stalled aircar.
The chauffeur was standing by the vehicle, his hands buried deep in his pockets, peering disgustedly under the hood. He wore a soft, dark blue outfit and cap that bore the official red and gold insignia of one of Halthzor's servants emblazoned across the front. Alan started to go on by, then paused and stepped over to him. "Got a problem?"
The chauffeur looked up, scowling. "Who're you?"
"Tom Edwards. I'm from Maintenance. Something wrong?"
"Yeah. His Almightiness's aircar just conked out. Just had it in for repairs last week, too." The man gave a disgusted grunt. "So the Duke says I gotta get it fixed and take it back to him. O' course, I ain't got *nothin'* else t'do today!"
Alan grinned sympathetically. "I know what you mean. Here, let me have a look." He bent over the car and reached in, fingering a few connections. "Gosh, it could be almost anything. Let's put in a call to the base garage and get it fixed up. We don't want His Grace upset. That always makes things difficult for everybody."
"You said it." The man looked relieved. "Thanks!"
"Don't mention it. I'm looking for an excuse to stay away from Maintenance, anyway."
The man gave a sour grin. "Don't blame you." He looked at Alan with more interest. "We don't get many native Terrans around here."
Alan smiled. "I've been away from Earth for five years now. Is it still that obvious?"
The chauffeur nodded. "Soon as you open your mouth."
Alan leaned over the vehicle again, pulling experimentally at a wire. "Well, you're from Shallock. I was assigned there last. I can spot a Shallockian accent a lightyear away." He shivered. "Look, let's make that call and get this thing towed before we freeze to death."
**********
It was several hours later. The chauffeur sat on a bench by one side of the shed, watching the mechanics swarming around the hood of the aircar.
"I think that's it," one said. "Try'n start her up, Brad."
A mechanic jumped into the seat of the vehicle and pressed the starter. Nothing. He climbed slowly out while the other man scratched his head in a puzzled fashion. "I was sure that was it. I don't see how this thing could've got off the ground long enough to get the Duke to the base. It's got more things wrong with it ..."
The chauffeur sourly flipped over the screen of a magazine cartridge with the air of a man who has heard nothing new.
Alan emerged from the back room and went over to him, offering him a cup of coffee. "Still no luck, huh?"
The chauffeur accepted the mug and scowled darkly at the liquid. "I'm beginnin' to wonder if these guys are for real. I don't think they *wanna* get it fixed ..."
One of the mechanics straightened up, red-faced. "Now just a minute ..."
Brad spoke a sharp word and the man subsided, glowering at the chauffeur.
"Take it easy," Alan said, quietly. "They're doing their best."
"Aw, hell, I know. I'm just lookin' for someone to grouch at. Sorry."
A mechanic was deep under the hood again. "Look here, Brad!"
Brad came over. "I'll be ...! The blasted thing's so loose it's ready to fall off!" He glanced at the chauffeur. "I think we got it now, sir. Just hold on a minute longer."
The chauffeur sat up, looking hopeful. Alan rose and strolled over to the vehicle, peering over the man's shoulder. "That ought to do it, all right."
The man beneath the hood gave a satisfied grunt. "Got it! Okay, Brad."
Brad climbed into the car once more and pushed the starter. A faint clicking sound came from the engine and there was a sudden, loud "Bang!" The man leaning over the vehicle leaped back and swore. The chauffeur came to his feet, slopping coffee down the front of his uniform. "What the devil!"
Brad climbed out, looking harried. "Hold on, sir. There must be something else we haven't found, yet."
The chauffeur settled down on the bench again, wiping coffee from the front of his uniform. "Damn!"
Alan flopped down beside him. "I'd send a complaint to that shop if I were you. Looks like they did more harm than good."
"No kiddin'!" The young chauffeur gulped down the remainder of the coffee and glanced at his chronometer. "It'll be dark soon. What am I gonna tell the Duke?"
Another report split the air as Brad tried once more to start the engine. The chauffeur winced, but didn't glance around. Alan shook his head sympathetically. "Gosh, I don't know what to suggest..."
"Try it now!" a mechanic called.
The chauffeur grimaced in anticipation, then relaxed as the engine came to life with a soft purr. He stood up, Alan with him. "They got it ..."
The purr died abruptly in another ear-shattering report. The chauffeur hurled his mug across the room and Alan heard it smash against the wall behind him.
"Just a minute, sir," Brad said, miserably.
Alan put a hand on the chauffeur's shoulder. "Listen, Nick, you've had a rough day. Why don't you call from here and report that the car's apparently in need of major repairs. When it's fixed, I'll personally bring it by and drop it off. Okay?"
Nick looked dubious. "I dunno. The Duke told me to bring it back to him ..."
"BANG!" went the car.
"Look," Alan said, "you can tell them we'll return it when we've got it running. Then you can go home. It's almost dark, what with the storm and all, and if you wait much longer you might get snowed in. If they ground the airtaxis you could be stuck here all night."
Nick hesitated a moment longer, then sighed. "Aw, what the hell! He can't expect me to hang around all night waitin' for that damned junkheap! Thanks, Tom, you're a good guy."
"Don't mention it," Alan said. He watched the chauffeur as he got up and went over to the videophone. The man punched a combination and spoke to the being who appeared on the screen. The creature was vaguely owl-like, the serrated beak slurring its Basic oddly. Two vestigial wings adorned its shoulders and the three-digited hands were equipped with the cruel talons of a predator. A light blue fuzz, which was actually a layer of almost microscopic feathers, covered the head, somewhat like the down of a baby chick or duckling and a row of longer ones made a central crest from forehead to the nape of the neck, similar to a Terran cockatoo. Two round, dark eyes stared expressionlessly out of the face at the chauffeur as he spoke. The servant was a Procyon.
Alan turned and walked over to the car. Quickly and undetectably, he loosened a connection as another of the mechanics tried to turn on the engine. The motor sputtered and once more gave forth a terrific bang. The man stuck his head out of the vehicle. "Damnation! What the devil's making it do that?"
"I got it!" Brad called from beneath the hood. "Go ahead!"
Alan stood on tiptoe and leaned over his shoulder, carefully loosening another connection. The mechanic in the vehicle pushed the starter again. The engine groaned, sputtered, and once more the cannonade ripped the air. Alan leaped back.
Brad's patience failed him at last. He threw down his tool and swore. "Damn, I thought I had it that time! This blasted thing's falling apart! I think the Duke ought to get a new car!"
Alan loosened another couple of connections for good measure, then walked back to the chauffeur. He'd been doing similar things all afternoon.
"Ready?"
"Yeah." The chauffeur was glancing around. "Thanks again, Tom . I really appreciate this. Where's my cap?"
"Cap?" Alan looked around, too. "I don't see it. Did you leave it in the car?"
"Maybe." The chauffeur looked. "Nope, ain't there." He spoke to the frustrated mechanics. "Anybody see my cap?"
There was a chorus of denials. The man swore under his breath and began to look around. Alan helped, checking the back rooms and under the bench.
Ten minutes later the chauffeur gave up, cursing. "I'm goin' home!"
Alan smiled sympathetically. "If I find it I'll bring it along and leave it in the car for you."
"Thanks." The chauffeur shook his head. "Man, this whole day has gone straight to hell!"
"I know what you mean," Alan agreed. "One of those times when everything's out to get you."
"You said it. I'm gonna head home. Man, with my luck they'll have grounded the taxis by now."
Alan hoped not. "'Bye. See you."
The man went out. Alan watched as he left, then went over to the car and the three mechanics, whose efforts had eased off abruptly when the chauffeur left. One of them leaned disgustedly against the vehicle.
"Glad he's gone. I don't think we're ever going to get this thing fixed."
Alan glanced at his chronometer. "It's almost time for the shift change. Why don't you guys go get some coffee and I'll fiddle with it for awhile."
"Man, kid, you're a lifesaver!" Brad shook his head. "You kept him pacified as long as you could. Thanks a lot."
"No problem," Alan said, grinning a little. "Go on, get some coffee. I'll see what I can do."
The three men drifted away, talking in low voices. Alan bent over the vehicle, beginning to tighten the loosened connections.
It was less than twenty minutes later when the new shift came on. Alan, deep under the hood of the aircar, heard the mechanics talking.
"How you doing, kid?" Brad inquired.
"Okay," Alan called.
A few minutes later the mechanics left. One of the new men came over, sticking his head under the hood, too. "I hear this thing's been givin' you guys a ferocious headache. How you doin' with it?"
"I'm about done. There, try it now. I think I may have gotten it."
"Okay." The man obligingly jumped into the front seat of the vehicle. The engine roared to life. The mechanic climbed out. "I'll be damned. We could use you around here, kid." He grinned at Alan. "Go on home now. You've earned your day's pay, all right."
Alan slammed the hood and wiped grease from his hands on the maintenance coverall. "I'm going to drop this thing off at the Duke's estate before it decides to quit on us again. Then I'll go home."
One of the other men laughed. "Good idea. Thanks for saving us some work, kid."
"Don't mention it." Alan climbed in and backed the car out of the shed. He lifted off and the building's doors swung shut behind him.
He guided the aircar toward the main gate and pulled over by the sentries. The guard flashed his light over Alan and grinned. "Nice heap. They must be paying you guys better'n they do us."
Alan returned the grin and pulled out his I. D. "Returning His Grace's aircar to him. It conked out awhile ago."
The man glanced briefly at the card and dropped it into the identostamp. There was a whirr and a click and the guard handed it back to him. "Yeah, I heard." His grin broadened. "That chauffeur'll be glad. He was grousing about it to me while he was waiting for his taxi."
Alan shook his head. "Poor guy. What an awful job! Must be murder, driving Jils around all the time."
"You said it. Better go on. The Base Commander's car's coming up behind you."
Alan eased the car through and lifted off again. Fifteen minutes later he was settling it into the parking lot in Loquin where he had arranged to meet his partner. He turned off the lights and waited.
The door opened and a figure slid into the seat beside him, tossing several large, bulky bundles into the back.
"Good thing you showed up when you did," Mark said. "That guy at the drugstore was beginnin' to wonder about me. I been there for five hours. Never drank so much coffee in my life."
Alan laughed and lifted the car off the parking lot surface. Mark turned, surveying the car's interior with appreciation. "Pretty snazzy. Our lords and masters do all right for 'emselves. I ain't never been in one o' these before."
"Classy," Alan agreed. "Did you get everything?"
"Yeah." Mark grinned. "You shoulda seen Quade's face when I asked for boots with elevator soles plus five centimeter heels in *my* size. He thought I was nuts. When I told him why, he was sure of it, but they got it all. Where are we headin' now?"
"Some place to hole up for a few hours," Alan said. "A spot where there aren't too many people, preferably -- out in the country somewhere. This car's too conspicuous with that insignia on the side. Halthzor sure doesn't believe in subtlety, does he?"
Mark shook his head. "He's a Jil, kid. He's the best and he wants the whole Sector to know it." Linley made a rude noise.
Alan glanced at him. "Now, now, no disrespect, my good man."
The noise was repeated and Mark broke into a fit of coughing. Alan glanced at him in alarm. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah." Linley grimaced and swallowed with difficulty. "M' throat's gettin' sore, dammit! If you don't mind, kid, I think I'll catch a little shuteye before we hafta get goin'."
"Sure," Alan said.
Mark touched a button on the dashboard. There was a soft purr and the seat tilted obligingly back. Linley sighed, lay back on the soft cushions and closed his eyes.
**********
Chapter Five
The Jilectan aircar moved slowly forward through the driving snow. The lights of Loquin had dimmed into the distance and before him Alan saw a vast forested hillside, great fir trees swathed in a blanket of whiteness. He brought the vehicle down lower, his eyes scanning the area. It seemed deserted and a sign loomed up out of the snow.
MARINTHZOR WILDLIFE RESERVE
There would be few visitors to such a place, considering the weather conditions. Alan guided the aircar down into a large, snowy clearing.
He glanced at Mark, seated beside him and grinned. Golden blond hair, beaded with melting snow, stood up damply on his head and his eyes were closed in sleep. He was snoring gently, his face flushed, but peaceful. Silence fell, broken only by Linley's snores and the whisper of the snowflakes tapping on the windshield. Alan watched them idly as they slowly melted from the warmth within the aircar and ran in little trickles down the plastic. The last time he'd been in a place like this was when his family had visited Yosemite Park, the year Janice had turned three. She would be twelve now, if she had lived. He frowned, wondering why he had thought of that. His father, mother and baby sister had been killed in an aircar accident the year after their Yosemite trip, leaving him the only survivor.
A noise brought him around, reaching for the blaster concealed beneath his cape. Something was coming across the clearing toward them. He couldn't make out its shape in the swirling snowflakes but it looked utterly tremendous. He felt his heart contract and begin to pound as a dark, fearsome face peered through the windshield at him.
Mark stirred, rubbing a hand drowsily across his eyes. "Whatcha linkin' with me for?" He jerked convulsively at the sight of the creature and the blaster was instantly in his hand. "What the hell's that?"
"I don't know." Alan heard his voice shaking. "We're on a wildlife preserve."
Two glowing, golden eyes were blinking at them and a long snout attached itself to the window like an octopus. There was a soft, sucking sound. The aircar trembled.
"What'll we* do*, Mark?"
"I dunno. Sit still. Maybe it'll lose interest."
A heretofore invisible mouth appeared below the snout. Fangs gleamed whitely in the grisly caricature of a smile. The aircar began to rock to and fro.
Mark sneezed.
There was a horrified squeal and the snout detached itself from the windshield in haste. A moment later the thing was lumbering away through the snowflakes to vanish into the trees.
Alan let out his breath in a long, "Whew!" He grinned at Mark. "Nice timing, pal."
Mark looked at him and slowly a grin formed on his features. He drew a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose.
"Go on back to sleep," Alan said.
"Are you kiddin'? Here I am, dreamin' o' soft music an' dim lights, an' all of a suddin you're linkin' with me. Talk about abrupt awakenin's! I open my eyes an' Gargantua's lookin' through the window at me!"
"Sorry about that. Poor thing was probably just curious about us."
"It was tryin' to eat the damn aircar! Let's get outta here before it decides to come back!"
"Don't worry, Mark. If it does, I'll just wake you up and you can sneeze at it again."
Linley scowled at him. "All right, kid, but I won't sleep a wink with the thought o' that critter prowlin' around out there."
Alan sighed. "It was such a good spot, too." He reached for the starter. Mark caught his wrist.
"Easy, kid, I was only jokin'. Who's scared of a little forest monster, anyway?"
"Are you sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure." Mark leaned back in the seat and was asleep again in five minutes.
**********
Mark Linley awoke with Alan shaking him gently by the shoulder. "Wake up, Mark. Time to go."
Linley opened his eyes. They were parked beneath the spreading branches of one of the tall, fern-like evergreen trees, which were so characteristic of Riskell. It was still snowing and six centimeters of whiteness swathed the hood of their vehicle.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He felt awful. His ears were plugged, as well as his nose, his eyes were sticky and there was a nasty taste in his mouth. He swore softly and sneezed, discovering a charleyhorse in his neck as he did so.
Alan was watching him. "I think your temperature's going up, Mark. Your face is flushed."
"I'll have pneumonia by mornin', no doubt. Damn, whatta cold! No more moonlight walks for me before an assignment."
His partner's green eyes twinkled. "Don't make any promises you won't keep, Casanova. Better get into your outfit."
"Yeah." Linley blew his nose on a tissue.
"Don't blow your brains out your ears," Alan advised.
"Sarcasm ill becomes you, m'lad." Linley reached into the back seat and hefted the largest of the bundles he had brought. "Any sign o' Gargantua, by the way?"
"No, " Alan said. "I moved us while you were asleep."
"Oh, really?" Mark found himself grinning. "Like you said, the critter was probably just curious."
Alan laughed sheepishly. "I don't know. Guess I got kind of nervous -- thinking about the thing. Besides, you were snoring so peacefully I didn't want to have to wake you up again."
"I never snore," Mark said, with dignity.
Alan checked the back seat. "Well, someone was sawing a log nearby, then. Anyway, I moved us a little closer to the camping areas. I figured there wouldn't be much in the way of Jils camping out at this time of year."
Mark was opening the bundles, taking out the contents. It was an unusual assortment of articles for Linley, who usually preferred the most casual of clothing. Silver, floor length robe, the formal dress of a Jilectan noble, with furred overtunic and a heavy, ornamental leather belt, at least twenty centimeters wide, with its ceremonial knife.
He struggled into the voluminous apparel, cursing softly, then pulled on the expensive, calf-high boots. As he had mentioned earlier, these were very special boots, with thick, internal elevator soles and five-centimeter heels. The clothing was warm -- almost too warm in the heat of the aircar's cabin.
"Better practice a little in those boots," Alan advised. "They'll be clumsy at first. I know."
Linley grimaced. "Yeah, I guess you would." He pulled out the rest of the articles to complete his ensemble -- a tall, silver-furred hat, spangled with glittering stones, a long, flowing floor-length cape, and a large, silver-furred muff. With a certain amount of difficulty he donned the clothing, then opened the door of the aircar and got out, stumbling a little in the boots. With care he ran a comb through his blond, waving hair and settled the tall, furred hat at just the right angle.
Alan was leaning out of the car, looking at him. "Gosh, will your lordship deign to allow me to place my cap on my unworthy head?"
Mark grinned at him. "How do I look?"
"Enough like a Jil to make my skin crawl. Just remember, keep quiet. That Shallockian accent will give you away sure."
Mark frowned at him haughtily. "No cracks about the unique way I express m'self, underlin'!" He took a step, stumbling in the high, block heels, and swore. "Now I know why the Jils are so hard to get along with. Bet they all have corns. These damned toes pinch!"
Alan chuckled. Linley took another step, stumbled and swore again. "I ain't never gonna get the hang o' these blasted heels. How do women do it?"
"Lots of practice," Alan said. "The snow's making it worse. It won't be so hard on level ground. Good, now you're doing better."
"If you say so." Mark strutted up and down, his chin elevated in the lofty attitude of the Jilectans. He saw Alan's admiring gaze and grinned a little, surveying as much of himself as he could see in the dimness. Swathed in the flowing, silver robes and teetering precariously in his high-heeled boots he did, indeed, look like one of the aliens. It was only his size that made this masquerade at all feasible. Linley stood a full two meters tall in his bare feet. The boots elevated him several centimeters above that critical level and the furred hat added to his loftiness. His fair coloring was also an important factor. The Jilectans ranged in coloring from near albino to that of a northern European on Terra. Linley, himself, was golden blond with deep blue eyes -- the perfect shading to impersonate one of the aliens.
The only giveaway was likely to be his hands. The Jilectans had six fingers, and each digit bore an extra joint from a Terran's viewpoint. That was the purpose of the muff -- also an excellent place for concealing a blaster.
Linley took several more steps, stumbling only once. He was getting the hang of it now. The soles were heavy and Mark took a moment to feel a little sorry for his partner, who must wear elevator shoes at all times just to lift him to the height of the average Terran female. That was the price Alan paid for being the most gifted psychic in the Terran Underground.
His partner was still watching him from the aircar. "You're doing great, Mark. I think you're about ready."
"Be quiet, lowly Terran! How dare you venture an opinion in the presence o' my high almightiness?"
"Beg pardon, m'lord!" Alan said.
Mark grinned at him. "You may kiss the toe o' my boot."
"Get your royal butt in the car, m'lord. We don't want to get there too late."
Linley climbed back into the vehicle, brushing flakes from his fur cloak. The storm was lessening, but enough snow still fell to partially obscure the vision of the driver. With any luck, it would also obscure the vision of the sentry at the Viceroy's gate.
He settled himself majestically in the rear seat, carefully adjusted his robes and checked himself in the mirror thoughtfully provided for the noble owner of the car. Meticulously, he combed his hair into a close approximation of a style favored by the Jilectans and replaced the hat.
"What's the time?" he inquired.
Alan glanced at his wrist. "What's the matter, m'lord? Can't you find it on that thing you call a chronometer?"
"Silence, Terran! This damned robe's hidin' it."
"It's twenty-one hundred hours, m'lord. By the way, how do I look?"
Mark leaned forward, peering through the plastic divider at him. Alan touched a button on the car's control panel, causing the transparent sheet to retract for a better view. His partner was clad in the dark blue uniform of a Jilectan's chauffeur, provided by Quade, and over his curly, dark hair was the chauffeur's cap, bearing the all-important red and gold insignia of Duke Halthzor. Linley wondered how he had managed to acquire the item, reflecting that when his partner had been recruited by the Underground he had forfeited a brilliant career as a safecracker.
"You look really great."
"Not so great as you, m'lord. I get goosebumps every time I look in the mirror. Now, try to look like you're all stuck up about yourself. Shouldn't be too difficult for a Strike Commander."
"Quit throwin' my disreputable past in my face, youngster," Mark said, striving to appear hurt. "I'm a reformed character now -- honest, loyal, thrifty, kind, humble..."
"That'll be the day," Alan said, and dodged the punch Linley threw at him.
"Okay, li'l pal." Mark rearranged his robes. "Let's go before I lose my nerve. Gimmie one o' those cold capsules, willya? I don't wanna be a Jil with a runny nose. Might make somebody suspicious."
Alan fished in the pouch of Mark's discarded Patrol belt and tossed a small box back to his partner. Linley took a capsule, then tucked the box into the front of his formal robes. The car lifted quietly from the ground and hummed away to the northwest.
The area around Loquin, the capital city of Riskell, was a favored part of the country for the more important Jilectans. All Jilectans were addressed as Lord or Lady by members of the lower species -- at least, if they valued their skins -- even the lower class ones. But, predictably, they had their ultra rich and powerful. The Viceregal Estate occupied the choice position in the rolling hills to the northwest of Loquin. It was bounded on the east by the estate of Duke Halthzor and on the north by that of Lord Revolthvor, a high ranking member of the Viceroy's cabinet. The estates were large, with lakes, woods, rivers, landscaped gardens -- all the luxury that enormous wealth could buy.
They skimmed past the southern border of Halthzor's estate, seeing the distant ducal mansion brilliantly lighted in the darkness. The lights of aircars moved around it.
"Looks like a big bash at His Grace's tonight," Mark said. "Let's hope mostly everybody at the Viceroy's is at it."
"Amen," Alan said. "The estate's right ahead. Ready, m'lord?"
"Ready, Terran!" Mark lounged in the seat, his chin in the air in an imitation of the supercilious pose of a Jilectan lord. His hands, inside the muff, clasped the blaster as he leaned back, apparently at ease. Alan lowered the car to the ground by the gate and rolled through. Any other method of entrance -- such as by air -- would immediately set off a general alarm, for the car would enter a network of sensors protecting the Viceregal estate. But no sentry in his right mind would dare to question the Duke's official vehicle.
The sentry, a Terran, glanced perfunctorily through the frosted window at Mark's big figure and saluted respectfully. Linley let out his breath as the gate faded into the falling snow behind them. "Whew!"
"That was the easy part," Alan said. "Let's hope you can do as well inside. Remember to steer clear of the real Jils. They're sure to smell a rat."
"You're tellin' me," Linley said.
"Speaking of smells," Alan added, "you didn't forget the stinkum, did you?"
"Nope." Linley made a face. "Didn't wanna put it on 'til I got outta the car, though."
It was a fact, as all persons acquainted with the Jilectans knew, that Jilectans found the odor of Terrans offensive. The Jilectans, themselves, wore various scents, much as Terrans wore perfumes and aftershaves, although their tastes along those lines were somewhat different. Mark planned to use this fact to disguise the very distinctive Terran scent from the faintly sourish odor of a Jilectan -- just in case he was to encounter someone whose sense of smell was good enough to detect the discrepancy.
Their aircar hummed gently toward the Viceregal Mansion and settled quietly into the shadows next to a tall hedge. They were beside one of the wings of the building. Lights blazed from windows in front of the mansion, but this area was dark. They got out and glanced around.
Nothing. All was still.
Mark grimaced and slathered perfume across the exposed skin of his face and neck, then sprinkled his clothing liberally. Alan stepped back, waving his arms futilely. "Wheeeew! You smell prettier than Julia!"
Mark made a face. "Yuk! Jul'd be insulted. I smell like a skunk three days dead!"
Alan stifled a laugh. "Nobody's going to know you're a Terran from your smell, that's for sure. Okay, let's go. There's a side door over there." He clutched his cloak tightly around himself. "Brrr!"
No living thing was to be seen as they went silently across the frozen lawn. The storm was letting up for the present but flakes still drifted lazily from the sky and no stars were visible. Sudden gusts of wind whipped the fur cloak about Linley's ankles. He sneezed.
Alan echoed him, and then sniffled. Mark glanced at his partner.
Alan sneezed again. "Uh oh," he said.
"I hope you ain't comin' down with my cold," Linley said.
"Don't worry about it. Come on." Alan sneezed a third time.
They started across the open space, skirting the lawn, Alan walking three respectful paces behind his friend so that if they were observed he would be taken for a servant. Linley walked ahead, taking long, graceful strides, chin elevated.
"Mark!" Alan whispered.
"What?"
"Someone in the hedge over there." Alan's voice was barely audible and he grinned suddenly. "Security guard and his girl. He must have snuck her in. Watch it, m'lord. Here he comes."
A man appeared from behind the hedge and his eyes widened as they rested on Mark. He saluted smartly and came forward. "M'lord!"
Linley favored him with a frosty stare. The man wilted visibly and his eyes strayed nervously toward the bushes from whence he had just emerged. Mark glanced at his partner.
Alan stepped forward. "You have a woman concealed behind the shrubbery over there." His voice was crisply indifferent. "I suggest you remove her from the premises as rapidly as possible."
The man's jaw dropped. He turned to Mark. "Oh, please, sir, please don't tell His Highness! It won't happen again, sir, I promise!"
Linley's gaze swept the guard and all remnants of color drained from the man's face. "M'lord, please ..."
Linley jerked his head in an abrupt, dismissive gesture and turned coldly away. His partner fell in behind him once more. The guard stood still a moment, then turned slowly back toward the hedge.
They reached the shadow of the building and Mark looked quickly at Alan. "Well?"
"He was scared stiff," Alan said.
"Yeah, I thought so," Linley said, with satisfaction. "You ready?"
"Just a second." A small, muscular hand closed on his wrist and for an instant Linley felt the indefinable drain which meant his partner was tapping him for power. The locks on the Viceregal Mansion, Linley knew, were psychic proof -- at least for every kind of psychic that the Jils had ever encountered before. But this was the quality that made them different, the Armageddon Team, the only ones, anywhere, who could accomplish such a feat. The lock had not been designed to hold against them, because no one knew that such a thing was possible.
"Alarm disabled," Alan whispered. "Hold on."
Again the power drain, stronger this time. There was a faint click, and the door slid silently open.
"Good luck." Alan stepped back.
Mark gave him a thumbs-up sign and went in. The door closed behind him.
**********
Alan turned and went slowly back across the lawn toward the aircar. The security guard appeared out of the darkness again and his stricken gaze rested on Alan. "Is he gone?"
"Yeah, he went on in." Alan shook his head. "I feel sorry for you. What did you think you were doing, bringing a woman in here?"
"She talked me into it." The man's shoulders slumped. "Wanted to see the Viceregal Mansion close up. Dammitall! He'll tell on me, I suppose."
Alan opened his eyes wide. "Well, of course."
The guard groaned. "His Highness'll skin me alive! Oh, m'Gawd ..."
"He's pretty hard on you guys, huh?"
"He's the Viceroy," the guard said. "Man, what a stupid stunt! But I never thought a Jil'd be hanging around over here at this time of night! What's he doing here, anyway? I thought everyone was at the big blowout over at Halthzor's."
"I don't know," Alan said. "They don't tell me these things."
"Who is he?" the man inquired, bleakly. "I've never seen him before."
"Lord Levanthzor," Alan said. "He's kin to Halthzor on his mother's side." He touched the insignia on his cap. "Halthzor told me to drive him over. His own chauffeur got drunk, the stupid fool!"
"Great." The guard sighed. "Guess I'd better get out of here while the getting's good. If his own chauffeur blew it, he isn't going to be very tolerant of any other human weaknesses he runs into tonight."
"'Bye," Alan said.
The man turned and walked quickly back toward his sentry post. Alan sauntered with deliberate casualness over to the stolen aircar and got in. He wondered what Mark was doing
**********.
Chapter Six
Mark Linley stepped into a thickly carpeted hallway. From a distance came the murmur of voices, muted by the intervening walls. Soft lighting with a faintly reddish cast illuminated the area. To his right he saw a broad, carpeted staircase curving gracefully upward, and the hall continued into the dimness and out of sight in both directions. Nothing moved.
To his left was a lift. In spite of artistic considerations, Mark suspected the occupants of the house preferred the convenience of the lift to the stairs. He strode forward with more confidence than he felt, every scrap of mind shielding he possessed up tight. Leroy Burke, the psychic expert who had trained him in mind shielding techniques, had warned him that for his minimal shielding to be completely effective he must be at least seven meters from a telepath, but at closer distances it would prevent the individual from picking up stray thoughts and emotions by accident. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered idly for the thousandth time about that curious lack, as well as his strange ability to generate psychic power that no one could detect and only Alan could use. The two phenomena had to be connected, somehow; that was certain. If he had possessed the mysterious missing factor might he have been a psychic like Alan? The speculation was intriguing.
A being in the uniform of a house servant went by, not glancing at him -- one of the vaguely avian Procyons. Linley took a deep breath and went softly up the stairs.
The second floor was obviously for bedrooms and the like. A female Jilectan appeared from a room down the hallway. She was clad in a white, flowing robe of some sort, and her red hair sparkled with jewels. Mark went on up the stairway to the third floor, his spine tingling. The alien turned into another room in the corridor
Linley suspected that the security area would be on an upper level. He reached the third floor and glanced around. A Procyon in the outfit of a security guard passed him without a second look. Mark smiled inwardly. Alan had been correct as usual. No one in his right mind would dream of a Terran being so foolish as to impersonate a Jilectan. He started up the third flight of steps, treading softly, but not stealthily. Above all, he must avoid any appearance of stealth.
A Procyon was coming down the stairs toward him. The being paused uncertainly, then spoke. "May I help you, m'lord? Are you, perhapsh, losht?"
Mark dared not speak. The very distinctive accent of Shallock would instantly betray him. He glanced in his most indifferent manner at the alien and went on, spine prickling, but not looking back. As he reached the landing he glanced down. The servant was proceeding briskly away. Mark let out his breath.
The fourth floor yielded no better results. The security area had to be on the fifth level.
There was no stairway to the fifth level. Mark looked around, then strode confidently toward the lift. Taking another quick survey of the corridor, he withdrew a hand from the silver-furred muff and punched the call button, reinserting the hand quickly into the concealing fur. His hands would be a dead giveaway to anyone.
A security guard came into view, striding down the carpeted hallway. He glanced curiously at the pseudo-Jilectan. Mark met his round, dark eyes with an icy stare. The Procyon went past.
A bell pealed softly beside him, making his heart jump, but it merely announced the arrival of the lift. The doors opened and a man in the black and scarlet of the Viceregal Patrol emerged. His face turned up to Mark, his mouth opening in surprise. He saluted smartly. "M'lord!"
Linley strode straight toward him and the man moved quickly to the side. "M'lord, what are you ...?" The query died as Linley turned around in the doorway and allowed his gaze to fasten on the patrolman's nameplate. "Beg pardon, m'lord."
The doors closed between them and the lift accelerated upward. Mark inhaled deeply. There would be guards above. He raised his chin in a supercilious attitude and took a firm grip on the blaster within the soft, furry muff. The lift glided to a gentle halt, the door opening silently before him.
Four Terrans in Patrol uniform were relaxing about a table set on the carpeted hallway. A stack of playing cards lay on the table, along with credit slips and fractional credit coins. The men held their cards in their hands and helmets lay on the floor beside their chairs. Mark stepped off the lift and surveyed the scene with deep appreciation. He needed nothing else to inform him that no scanners observed them. The Viceregal Mansion was supposedly the ultimate in security, with its psychic-proof locks and a sensor network that an insect couldn't sneak through unidentified -- and indeed it was, for anyone but himself and Alan. These men felt themselves to be safe within a fortress, and what Jil would bother with a prisoner at this time of night? If these had been his men, heads would have rolled had he caught them in such activity while on duty. They might, anyway.
Heads began to turn in his direction. The tableau held static for several seconds, then came abruptly to life. The men scrambled to their feet, cards spilling to the carpet. "M'lord!"
Mark's blaster was suddenly out. "Freeze!"
There was total silence. Hands came up over heads. He gestured with the weapon. "Over there. Move!"
The men obeyed, moving to an open section of the hallway, hands still held high over their heads.
"Lie down on your faces. One at a time."
Very slowly, the men complied. When the four patrolmen were spread-eagled on the floor, Mark flipped his blaster to "stun" and fired three times. Then he stepped forward and removed the blaster from the fourth man's holster. He stood up, nudging the patrolman with the toe of his fashionable boot. "Okay, Bud, get up."
The man got slowly to his feet again, his eyes widening suddenly as they rested on Linley's face. Linley gestured with his blaster, shoving the guard's into the wide belt he wore. "Open the door."
"Come on, Linley, have a heart!" The patrolman's voice shook. "Don't take that prisoner. The Viceroy'll kill me -- to say nothin' o' Halthzor! Gimmie a break --"
"Open it," Mark said.
The patrolman turned toward the door behind him. "I'm dead. M'Gawd, Linley, do you got any idea what that Jil's like when he's mad?"
The lock clicked back. The patrolman hesitated for an instant, then jabbed the wall button with his thumb. The door slid open.
It was a small bedroom. Two chairs stood against one wall and to the right side of the room was a bed on which Linley could see the mound of a sleeping figure. He fired a stunbolt.
The guard dropped in his tracks. Mark flipped the blaster to "kill" and stepped forward.
The figure moved, pushing itself to a sitting position, knuckling its eyes sleepily. It was small, as Mark had expected -- psychics were all small. But this one ...
His quarry looked at him and gave a muffled scream. Astounded, Mark found himself staring at a little girl, no more than eight or nine years old. Her face was pale, the dark, unruly hair on her head wildly tousled, eyes wide with fright. Those eyes ...!
They were bright and green, and rimmed with dark, curling lashes. Mark swallowed. He knew those eyes -- would have known them anywhere. The child who faced him was a much younger version of his partner.
**********
(tbc)
