Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Original Fiction Outlaw: Part 1 -- Mercenary

OUTLAW
Part 1: Mercenary
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Copyright 1989

A young man sat tensely before the controls of the Terran skippership, his gaze returning frequently to his aft scanners. Nothing, so far. He mangled his lip as the seconds ticked away. The next few minutes would tell him if he'd managed to make his escape. The Patrol ship couldn't possibly track him through hyperspace, he told himself. There was no reason that he shouldn't be able to hide indefinitely on the frontier world. Midgard was sparsely populated on the northern continent, but the southern one was as yet completely empty of human habitation.

A musical bleep from the control board brought his attention back to the scanners. Yes, there it was, all right. The Patrol battlecruiser had just come out of hyperspace. Somehow they had guessed his destination and followed him. But how?

In hindsight, the answer was obvious. The skippership was low on power. His pursuers would have questioned the maintenance staff and discovered the fact. From it they must have deduced that the only star system within his reach was Alpha Centauri, a mere 4.3 light-years from Sol.

The spark on his screens grew and he drew a long breath, his mind racing in useless circles. This whole chase made no sense at all. He had done nothing to bring him to the attention of the law, certainly nothing that could possibly have offended the Jilectan Autonomy. He, Alan Westover, a common Earth kid, who had never seen a Jilectan in his life, had somehow aroused the enmity of the Jilectan Autonomy and he didn't have a clue how he had done it.

When Terra broke into interstellar space, three quarters of a century before, humanity had thought the final barrier to expansion crossed at last, and humans speedily colonized the habitable planets nearest Sol. But then, some two decades after they had reached the stars, the expanding Terran Confederation ran head on into the Jilectan Autonomy.

The Jilectans had entered space some two centuries before Terra. They were remarkably humanoid in appearance, and, except for size, resembled Terrans superficially, but they hailed from a planet of higher gravity and as a result were both stronger and faster than men. Upon reaching the stars they had discovered an astonishing fact. Although they possessed psychic powers, none of the intelligent species that they encountered, and eventually ruled, had any such abilities at all. The Jilectans accepted their privileged position readily, and before long, began to consider themselves unique among the intelligent life in the galaxy. They were a prolific species, and thus were forced to continually search for worlds able to support their people. By the time they met the Terrans, the Autonomy had been growing for two hundred Terran years. Jilectan Viceroys ruled the many sectors of the huge nation in the name of their Warlord, and the Viceroy of the newly colonized Rovalli Sector made peace with the Terran Confederation on the condition that Terrans colonize no more worlds without express permission from the Autonomy. Under pressure, the Terran government agreed.

Most Terrans suspected that the aliens regarded the fertile and hospitable worlds of the Terran Confederation with a certain covetousness, but there was little that could be done about it. Terra was forced into grossly unfavorable trade agreements by the more powerful nation, and eventually became at least partially resigned to her subordinate role in the scheme of things.

Alan knew these facts. Jilectan power was becoming more and more evident, even on Terra. Men and women were arrested in their homes by Viceregal patrolmen, and no one dared more than a token protest. Now it had happened to him. But why? What could he possibly have done for the Jilectans to send one of their mighty Patrol battlecruisers across the light-years in pursuit?

His communicator crackled suddenly, making him jump, and a harsh voice erupted from the speaker.

"Terran skippership! This is the Patrol battlecruiser 'Wolverine'! You are ordered to lay to and prepare for boarding!"

Alan was silent, chewing his lip. It was the final irony that the pursuing ship should bear a Terran name, but hardly surprising. These days many Terrans frequently became mercenaries in the Viceregal Patrol. Rank and power, difficult to obtain in this time, came frequently to the ambitious patrolman who distinguished himself before his masters. Although the Jilectans employed a variety of species, Terrans conformed closely to the requirements of size and mental makeup for the profession, and as a result now made up a sizeable percentage of the Jilectan armed forces in the Rovalli Sector.

"'Wolverine' to skippership, respond or be fired upon!"

Alan swallowed again and reached out to press a button on the panel. "This is the skippership."

A voice spoke in the background. "Got him, sir." Alan concentrated, making himself think consciously in the other language. The men were, of course, speaking Basic, the official language of the Jilectan Autonomy. All Terrans were required to learn at least a smattering of Basic. It was a difficult language to someone who had grown up speaking English, but Alan had learned it easily and well, just as he learned everything else.

"Alan Westover!" The third voice was a deep baritone, heavily accented, also speaking Basic. "This is Strike Commander Linley. I order you to surrender at once in the name of His Highness Lord Lanthzor, Viceroy of the Rovalli Sector. Cut your engines and surrender. Acknowledge!"

Alan did not acknowledge. He was busily checking his instruments. The battlecruiser was still out of range of his little ship. If he could just keep it that way, he might still have a chance.

"Acknowledge, Westover!" Linley's voice barked at him.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted angrily. "I haven't done anything!"

There was a short pause, then the voice resumed. "Surrender an' we won't hurtcha, mister. We gotcha on our scanners. You can't get away."

"You go to blazes!" Alan shouted.

Again the com spoke. "Give it up, Westover. You ain't gotta chance."

He slammed his hand down on the control, cutting off further communication, and tried to consider the situation calmly. The Strike Commander had been right. They were going to catch him. He was almost out of power, and the cruiser was gaining rapidly.

The misty planet swelled before him. Midgard was the third world in the Centauri system, and one of the ten planets the Terrans had colonized before their contact with the Jilectans. There was no real choice, of course. Another thirty minutes in space would exhaust his power and the Patrol would collect him at their leisure. With a sigh of resignation, he pressed a button and took manual control as the ship's nose slanted downward toward the hazy blue of the planet beneath.

There was a thin, rising whine as he entered the atmosphere, and he triggered the repulsers. Clouds blurred the viewscreen. Rain pattered sharply on the hull and lightning cracked suddenly across the nose of his tiny vessel. Alan glanced anxiously at the power meter. The display now registered only a fraction above zero but the scanners indicated land to the east, at least a hundred kilometers away. With a silent prayer, he turned the ship toward it.

With a suddenness that startled him, his ship emerged from the layer of clouds, revealing a rolling ocean below. He was within fifty kilometers of the shoreline when the engine's steady purr faltered, and his heart leaped into his throat.

But the comforting hum resumed and he let out his breath. Slowly, a dark line became visible on his screens.

The engine coughed again, then sputtered alarmingly, Alan found himself whispering frantically to the vessel, as though it was somehow alive and could hear him.

"Come on, baby, don't give out on me now! Just a little farther ..."

The engine went silent and Alan moved automatically, touching the control that would extend the glide wings. The ship stopped its downward plunge and leveled off. Ocean swept past beneath.

He wasn't going to make it. Over the water the upward currents that would have helped him were weak and few. His altitude dropped off, and the ocean rushed up to meet him.

The skippership splashed down about a kilometer from land, and the jar wasn't as bad as he'd expected. A wave lifted the vessel, tipping it sharply, and nearly capsizing him. Alan unsnapped his safety webbing and hurried back into the main body of the craft. As he pushed the manual control to open the airlock, another wave hit the ship, spinning it sideways. Water poured through the hatch, sending him staggering back. He fought his way desperately forward again, through the lock, and out into the open sea.


The temperature of the water surprised him. It was cold! Cold enough to take his breath away. His teeth began to chatter as he struggled on through liquid ice. Temperate, his Academy texts had stated concerning Midgard's climate. Maybe so, but he wondered abstractedly if the author of that text had ever actually been to the planet.

He took a moment to recover from the shock of the frigid water, and then struck out for the shore. His shoes were heavy and waterlogged, slowing him down, but he hesitated to abandon them. When he reached land he would have to run, probably through underbrush and over broken ground. But if the Patrol ship arrived before he could make it, such considerations wouldn't matter.

The problem was solved for him. A wave hit him, tossing him forward, and suddenly his left shoe was gone. He grabbed for it, but his fingers closed on nothing. Well, he could hardly run with only one shoe. With a sigh, he paused and removed the other one, letting the sea take it.

Swimming was easier after that. He felt light and buoyant as a ping pong ball in the salt water. Alan was a good swimmer, athletic and strongly built. He had no doubt of his ability to reach the shore. His one concern was that the Patrol ship would arrive before he could do so.

The fear of it leant him strength and he swam desperately, the strong current dragging him sideways. A breaker caught and lifted him, tossing him forward. As it crested, he saw the beach ahead, a smooth, empty expanse of white sand.

Another wave surged, and sand grated beneath his feet as it subsided. He staggered and splashed his way upward through shallow water, the breakers foaming around his legs. Then, clear over the crash of the waves and the patter of the falling rain, he heard the roar of the approaching Patrol ship.

Alan ran, his feet sinking deeply into the wet sand. They would see his footprints, of course. The Patrol would have to be blind to miss that beautiful, distinct line of tracks on the smooth, otherwise unmarked beach, but there was no way to cover the marks and no time to worry about it. The sand ended in a field of waving grass and small, bright flowers. Perhaps half a kilometer away a forest began, the trees dimly visible through the driving rain. Grass dragged maddeningly at his ankles, slowing down his progress, and something dug painfully into his heel. The rain fell steadily, but that was all to the good for the downpour might help to obliterate his trail. The Patrol ship was circling over the ocean where his vessel had gone down. The roar of the engines swelled in his ears.

Alan's foot descended on something small and stickery. He gave a yelp and fell, sprawling ungracefully forward and startling a flock of what appeared to be birds. The creatures flew away in all directions, screeching and squawking furiously. He lay still a moment, panting, then scrambled to his feet and ran on.

The forest was only meters away when the growl of the Patrol ship's landing mechanism reached him, and the throb of the engines rose in pitch. A glance back showed him that the ship was landing on the beach. He ducked under the first of the trees and paused to look back once more. The rain was letting up and figures moved on the beach, following his footprints up the wet sand. They reached the vegetation, dispersing into small groups that fanned out as they moved across the field toward the forest. Alan remained still for a moment, leaning against a tree and breathing hard. The rain fell softly around him, pattering on the leaves and undergrowth. The foremost patrolman could be seen clearly, now, his tall, muscular figure silhouetted against the cloud-draped sky. As Alan watched, the man's head turned slowly toward him and his voice could be heard, muffled by the falling rain. Alan turned and ran into the trees.

**********

Alan came to a gasping halt, clutching weakly at a tree for support. He had been fleeing since his arrival on Midgard, two days before, and his eyes were gritty and blurred from lack of sleep. The sun was sinking again, the woods were cold and filled with a shadowy dusk. Sweat prickled on his skin, and ran into his eyes.

The race was over. The Patrol was closing in. He could hear them clearly, for they were making no attempt to conceal the noise of their approach. The men must know he was near, and unable to run much farther.

"Straight ahead." He could hear the heavily accented voice plainly. "We've got 'im now. Man what a chase! The guy must be half marshhopper!"

"Man, sir, I don't see how you knew where he went." The second voice was also accented, but differently. "A bloodhound couldn't have followed him through that swamp!"

Alan staggered forward a dozen steps, stumbled, and fell with a noisy crash into the tangled underbrush.

"Hold it right there," a deep voice said clearly, and he froze.

"Keep your hands where I can see 'em. Search 'im Mac."

He lay still on his face, his head swimming. The muscles on his back tensed in anticipation of the blaster bolt that would burn the life from him, but it didn't come. There was a crunch of boots as the men approached, and a handlight spotlighted him. Hands patted his clothing and went through his pockets.

"He's clean, sir. Hey! His wallet's got a wad of credits ..."

"Hand it over. Okay, Bud, on your feet. Keep your hands up."

Alan managed to get to his knees, and swiveled around to face the patrolmen.

The light played over him. "I said on your feet!" The command had a bite in it -- the voice of someone who is accustomed to having orders obeyed without question.

It was too much effort. He tried and didn't make it, sinking back to his knees, half-sobbing with fatigue and terror. The patrolman stepped forward, grasped his collar, and pulled him upright. Vaguely, Alan was aware of a very tall man clad in a black and scarlet of the Viceregal Patrol, the dark visor concealing his eyes and red rank markings, indicating that he was an officer, slashed on the silver dome of his helmet. Behind him stood the form of another patrolman.

The grip on Alan's collar loosened and he sank back to his knees. The forest began to revolve around him in slow, lazy circles.

"Holy hell!" He heard the officer's voice through the buzzing in his ears. "He's nothin' but a kid!"

A dark mist was gathering before his eyes. He heard the patrolmen speaking, their voices faint and indistinguishable. Then the voices faded away, and there was nothing at all.


II

Voices in the darkness, and warmth. Sunlight on his upturned face. Alan shrank away from the voices, for even half-conscious as he was, he knew what they meant. They had caught him at last. He was a prisoner.

"He's coming to, sir."

Alan kept his eyes closed, trying uselessly to sink back into oblivion.

"Wake up, kid."

The voice was familiar. Against his will his eyelids lifted and he stared around, trying to orient himself.

There were restrainers on his wrists, and he lay face up on the forest floor, covered with a thin, military blanket. The Patrol officer was standing over him, and Alan knew that behind that dark visor the man was watching him. He counted four slashes on the silver helmet, and above the rank markings was the black-etched star of a Strike officer. He was in the presence of the ship's Strike Commander.

"Rise and shine, kid. You've been out for nearly twelve hours." The man spoke with that heavy, distinctive accent that Alan had noted before. Another patrolman appeared behind the officer. Alan glanced around, but could see no one else.

"Feelin' better?" the officer asked.

He didn't reply, but lay still, blinking up at the figures. He felt strangely light-headed and detached from his surroundings -- the effect of his exhausted sleep and no food, he supposed. The patrolman bent down, grasped his arm, and pulled him to a sitting position. The scenery around him tipped as he came upright and began to spin slowly. He grabbed for support with his cuffed hands and found himself gripping the man's forearm.

"Easy, there. Take a couple o' deep breaths." The patrolman spoke over his shoulder to his companion. "Mac, get the kid some coffee."

"Yessir." The patrolman moved to the small fire kindled in the center of the small clearing.

Alan's surroundings were steadying and he released the officer's arm, a little embarrassed. The patrolman didn't appear to notice. He let Alan go and stood up, surveying his prisoner again. "What'd you do, kid?" he asked.

"Huh?" Alan looked up at him, surprised.

The Strike Commander turned away, pulling off his helmet as he did so, and strode over to the campfire. Squatting beside it, he rummaged through a pack of supplies. "What'd you do t'make the Jils wantcha so bad?"

Alan shook his head. "Nothing."

The other patrolman was squatting beside him, offering him a cup of coffee. He laughed wryly. "Seems I've heard that song before. If you were innocent, why did you run?"

Alan took the mug. The officer pulled a can of field rations from the pack and stood up, turning to face his prisoner. Alan saw his features for the first time and was surprised to realize that the man was much younger than he'd expected -- probably no more than ten years older than Alan, himself. He was also strikingly good looking, with waving, blond hair and dark, blue eyes -- the lady-killer type, Alan thought, resentfully.

The officer was looking at him quizzically. "Well?"

"Well, what?" He sipped from the mug and choked. The coffee was strong and very bitter, grabbing at his throat. Scalding liquid spilled on his hands.

"Careful, kid." The officer was beside him, taking the mug. "Didja burn yourself?"

"It's okay." He sucked his scalded palm.

The officer set down the can he held and reached out to remove the restrainers from his prisoner's wrists. "Well, kid?" he repeated. "Why'dja run?"

"Because I was scared," Alan replied, defensively. "What would you have done if a bunch of guys waving blasters had come charging after you?"

The man grinned, good-naturedly. "Run," he admitted. "How 'bout you, Mac?"

Mac shrugged. "I guesso, sir." He was, Alan noted, covering him with his blaster.

"An' you didn't do nothin', kid?" The officer looked back at Alan. "Think hard."

"What do you think I've been doing since this whole thing started?" Alan demanded. "There's nothing!"

"It'll come back to you during interrogation," Mac said, cheerfully.

"Interrogation?" Alan felt the blood drain from his face.

"Shuddup, Mac," the officer said, turning to toss the restrainers over beside his helmet. "Here." He extended the can toward his prisoner. "Eat up. We gotta be movin'."

Alan stared at the can. "But I haven't done anything!"

Mac laughed, his blaster never wavering. "Eat, kid. We've got to go. The Jil's waiting."

"Jil?" He dropped the can and started to stand up.

The officer caught his wrist, pulling him back down. "Sit still."

Alan tried to jerk his wrist free. "Let me go, blast you! I haven't done anything!"

"Siddown." The officer didn't raise his voice, but Alan stopped struggling, staring at him.

"Siddown," the man repeated.

He sat. "But ..."

"Eat," Mac said.

The officer put a hand on Alan's shoulder. "Better eat somethin', kid," he advised. "You'll feel better if you do." He picked up the can of rations, extending it once more to Alan. "C'mon. Things won't seem half so bad once you got somethin' in your stomach."

Reluctantly, the boy accepted the offering and began to eat. After his first bite he hesitated no longer, but wolfed down the contents of the can. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. The officer sat back on his heels, watching him, and Mac kept his weapon pointed in the prisoner's direction.

Alan finished the can and looked up, smiling shyly at the officer. "Thanks."

The man nodded. "Want some more?"

"Yes, please. I'm starved."

"Figured you would be." He glanced at Mac, who dug through the supplies, pulling out another can.

"We ought to be going, sir." The patrolman tossed the can to the officer. "His Lordship's going to be impatient."

"Let the kid fill up." The officer opened the second can, handing it to Alan. "He'll be able to move faster if he's in good shape."

Mac shrugged.

Alan was halfway through the second can, beginning to notice, at last, what he was eating. It was some kind of salted meat, mixed with a flaccid, soggy, potato-like vegetable. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. He'd been hungry enough to eat shoe leather. He finished the can and picked up his mug again, regarding the contents warily. "This coffee's terrible."

"Yeah, I know." The officer laughed. "That's Patrol rations, kid."

"Can I have some water instead?"

"Sure." The man unhooked the canteen from his belt. "Here you go. Drink up."

"Thanks," Alan said again, and swigged from the container. He'd been almost as thirsty as hungry.

The officer stood up, retrieving his canteen. "Okay, time to go. Oh, by the way, you're under arrest, kid. I'm the arrestin' officer -- Strike Commander Linley, Viceregal Peace Patrol. He's Patrolman MacKinzie."

Alan looked at the other patrolman sullenly, noting almost absently the marks of a first classer on his helmet. MacKinzie grinned, starting to holster his blaster. Linley grinned, too.

"Don't blame you for bein' sore, kiddo, but there ain't no point bein' sore at us. It's our job, that's all,"

"I guess," Alan said, sullenly. "What am I supposed to have done?"

"I was hopin' you'd be able t'tell us," Linley said.

"You mean you really don't know?" Alan stared at him in surprise.

Linley shook his head. "Nope. All I can say is it musta been somethin' good. Ol' Lord Salthvor sure is itchin' t'get his hands on you."

"I don't understand," Alan said. "You were sent to catch me. Didn't he tell you why?"

Linley shook his head again. Alan nodded slowly. "He sure must trust you a lot."

Linley's face darkened, and MacKinzie took a step forward. "Careful, sonny," he growled. "You're talking to my Strike Commander."

Linley glanced at the man. "Cool down, Mac." He glanced back at Alan. "The Jils don't tell us everythin' kid. All I know is your name, and that you've evidently been a very naughty boy."

Alan was silent.

"You *are* Alan Westover, ain'tcha?" Linley inquired.

He nodded reluctantly.

The Strike Commander was looking at him, an odd expression on his face. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"You look younger," Linley said, abruptly. "Okay, on your feet. Time's a'wastin'."

Alan stood up. "Are we walking?"

"We have to -- least 'til we get to the swamp. No place to land a scout in this jungle. But you ain't in no hurry, are you?"

"No," Alan said.

The man's grin was magnetic, and against his will Alan found himself returning it. Linley turned away and strode over to the restrainers.

"Here, Mac." He tossed the shackles to MacKinzie. "Get 'em back on him." He bent down for his helmet.

Alan took a step backwards as MacKinzie approached with the restrainers. "Wait, please, sir. I promise not to make any trouble. Don't put those things on me again."

MacKinzie kept coming, and Alan backed away, putting his hands behind him. "Please, sir!"

Linley glanced at him, helmet in hand. "Wouldja promise not to try to get away?"

He opened his mouth and closed it again. Linley laughed. "Not that I'd've trusted you anyway. You're too fast on your feet. Hurry up, Mac."

"No!" Alan spun and bolted for the trees.

MacKinzie was upon him instantly, throwing him to the ground. Alan kicked backwards, and the patrolman gave a surprised grunt. "Ow!" He followed the exclamation with a string of profanity, hauled his captive upright and jerked him around, a large fist lifting.

"Mac," Linley said.

The patrolman froze, turning toward his superior officer. Linley shook his head. "Lay off."

"He kicked me, sir," Mac protested.

"Just put the restrainers on, Patrolman."

Mac's mouth tightened and he turned back to Alan. Linley glanced at the boy. "Don't try it again, Bud."

Alan remained where he was, not answering, bent almost double in the grasp of the patrolman. Linley turned away.

Sudden alarm shot through him, and he gave a strangled cry of warning.

An earsplitting roar echoed through the trees and Mac released him, shoving him forward. Alan fell, but landed in a roll, coming easily to his feet again. Something enormous came crashing through the tangled shrubbery to his right. Linley shouted a warning. Alan caught a confused impression of a huge, reptilian head, gaping jaws, and long, yellow fangs, as the thing charged straight toward Mac. The patrolman screamed, stumbling back, his blaster lifting. The weapon spat, just as the jaws closed with a sickening crunch. The patrolman's cry was cut off abruptly. The thing reared backward, half of Mac's body dangling limply from its jaws.

Linley's blaster cracked almost simultaneously. The bolt caught the creature in the side, searing away a patch of thick, yellowish scales. The thing screamed like a steam whistle, dropped the patrolman and, with unabated speed, lumbered toward the Commander. Linley leaped backwards, caught his foot on a trailing vine, and fell. His blaster spun sideways, described a graceful arc through the air and thudded to the ground right at Alan's feet.

Alan had no time to think. His reactions had always been fast, and now he moved instinctively. He bent, snatched up the blaster, and sprang sideways directly between Linley and the creature. For an instant his saw the great, bloodstained tusks, and pink gullet, and long, twisting tongue of the thing. Then his finger jerked on the trigger and the bolt caught the creature full in the face.

He tried to jump out of the way, but the head was too close. It crashed down, clipping him on the chest and hurling him backwards. He landed heavily on top of Linley. His foot twisted under him, but he barely felt it. The creature sprawled forward, the great, charred head coming to rest in the dirt, less than a meter away.

A large, strong hand descended on his wrist, and the blaster was gently, but firmly, removed from his grasp. Linley pushed him aside and got to his feet.

"Mac?" he called. "Are you okay?"

There was, as expected, no reply. Linley stepped past the motionless creature to squat beside his companion. "Mac?" He tried to pull the helmet away and stopped. Alan heard him mutter to himself.

"Is he all right?" he asked.

"He's dead," Linley replied. "His neck's busted -- an' the critter gored him right through the gut."

Alan swallowed hard. The Strike Commander was distracted for the moment. If he was to escape, now was the time.

His ankle was full of pins and needles, and as he tried to get to his feet it seemed as if a red-hot knife stabbed him in the leg. He bit off a gasp and sank back down, feeling slightly sick. Linley turned, saw him on his knees, and automatically brought the blaster up to cover him. "Freeze!"

Alan didn't reply, but closed his eyes, fighting back nausea. He heard Linley approaching. "You hurt?"

"My foot." Alan got the words out through clenched teeth.

"Hang on." The Strike Commander's hands eased him to the ground. "Relax an' take a couple o' deep breaths. That's good."

"I feel sick," Alan mumbled.

Linley shoved his head into his lap. "Breathe slow an' deep. It'll pass off in a minute."

Alan obeyed. Slowly the nausea receded and he lifted his head to see the Strike Commander kneeling beside him. There was an odd expression on the tall man's face.

"Better?" he asked.

Alan nodded, gripping his lower lip between his teeth. "It hurts."

"Lemme have a look." Linley lifted the ankle, examining it carefully, his fingers probing. Alan gave a sharp gasp, and his stomach lurched again.

"Sorry." The officer swore under his breath. "Could be a break, but it's probably just a good sprain." He placed the foot carefully on the forest floor and sat back on his heels, surveying his prisoner curiously. "That was a dumb stunt, kid. You coulda got away."

"I know," Alan said, bleakly.

There was a moment of silence. Linley started to rest a hand on his shoulder, then drew back as Alan flinched away. "I'm sorry, kid," he said. "I still hafta takeya in, y'know."

Alan was silent, rubbing his ankle.

"Thanks for the rescue, though." The Strike Commander paused, absently rubbing his own ankle.

There was another pause. Linley scratched a thumbnail across the blond stubble on his chin. He moved suddenly. "Here, lemme see if I can help your foot." He stood up and went over to pick up his pack. He rummaged through it, and brought out a regulation Patrol emergency kit. "Hang on, kid. I gotta sprain wrap in here somewhere. Yeah, here it is." He took out the bandage and returned to his prisoner. "Hold still."

"I'll be okay." Alan drew back. "Just give me a minute."

Linley ignored the request and knelt to bind up the injured ankle with surprising skill. To Alan's surprise, the pain eased somewhat.

"There." The Strike Commander secured the wrapping. "That better?"

Alan nodded. "Yes, sir."

"S'nothin'." Linley surveyed him a moment in silence.

Alan nodded again and watched as Linley got to his feet. "What are you going to do?" he inquired.

The Strike Commander got to his feet. "I'm gonna call the ship an' report this mess. They'll hafta send somebody to help me with you ..." He strode past the dead monster again, then stopped, staring down at something on the ground beside it, and swore unimaginatively.

"What's the matter?" Alan craned his neck to see past the creature.

Linley bent, picking up the object. "It's my helmet. Dammitall! The critter musta stepped on it. It's smashed flat!" He hurled the wreckage disgustedly away and gave the dead monster a vivid and extremely unflattering description of its ancestry. Alan listened in respectful silence until he had finished.

"What's wrong?"

"It's my communicator." Linley added another short, pungent word, and went over to MacKinzie. "The helmet I could live without. Damn thing gives me a headache half the time anyway. But they build our communicators into the helmets. I sure hope Mac's is okay."

Alan didn't hope so. He watched Linley pull the other man's helmet free and glance into it. The Strike Commander stood up again, pressing a button. "Linley to 'Wolverine', come in."

No response. He pressed the button again and twisted a knob. "Hell! There's blood all over the controls." He wiped the hand across his breeches. "Wolverine, this is Strike Commander Linley! Respond!"

Silence. Linley cussed under his breath, adjusted the knob again. "'Wolverine'! Elliott, are you there?"

The com remained silent. Linley reached inside again. "Dammit, Elliott! Answer me!"

Alan stifled a laugh, and Linley glanced at him, scowling. "It's busted, an' I ain't no tech. This is gonna be a long hike, kid."

Alan wasn't about to tell the man that it was possible that he could fix the thing. He had repaired such mechanisms for over six Terran months to earn money for school. And Terran communicators probably weren't all that different from the Patrol's. He shrugged. "It's okay, sir. As you said, I'm in no hurry."

Linley surveyed him a moment, then sighed. "No, I guess not. How's the foot?"

"Better."

"Think you can stand on it?" The Commander strode over to his prisoner and extended a hand. Alan pulled himself upright, trying gingerly to put his weight on the injured foot. The ankle gave instantly, and Linley caught him before he could fall.

"Damn!" Linley lowered him to the ground again, "My ankle's hurtin', too. I musta wrenched it when I fell over that damned vine." He glanced around. "Guess I'd better try'n make some sort o' crutch for you. Lemme see ..."

It took fifteen minutes to get the crutch made. Linley helped him to his feet again and handed him the crude device. It was far too long, the top reaching easily to his ear.

"Damn, but you're short!" Linley lowered him to the ground again.

"I can't help it," Alan said, a little resentfully.

Linley grinned. "You still got some growin' to do." He drew his blaster and adjusted it, beginning to burn off the excess length. "There, that oughtta do it." He lifted Alan upright again. "Damn! It's still too long!" He measured the device with his eye. "Okay, I think I got it." Once more he lowered Alan to the ground and employed the blaster. "There, that better do it. Try it now."

Alan was lifted to his feet once more. "It's okay now," he said.

Linley glanced around then bent beside Mac, removing the pouches and blaster from the man's belt. Alan looked down at the body. "Shouldn't we bury him?"

Linley shook his head. "Maybe, but we ain't got the time. Like Mac said, the Jil's waitin' for us, an' Jils don't like to be kept waitin'."

Alan stared at the patrolman's body, all the horror of his situation descending on him again.

Linley was watching him. "Let's go, kid."

"No!" Alan threw the crutch down. "I won't go!" He stood still, staring defiantly into Linley's handsome face.

The Strike Commander sighed. "Don't be an idiot, kid. I'm bigger'n you, an' a helluva lot stronger. I can force you t'go, but I'd rather not. So be a good kid an' start walkin'. Okay?"

Alan lost his balance and sat down hard. "You go to blazes!" he snapped. "I'm not moving!"

The patrolman's expression didn't change. "Okay, kid, if that's the way you want it." He leaned down, took Alan's arm and brought him forcibly to his feet. Alan jerked away, then bit back a cry as weight was thrown on the sprained ankle. Linley picked up the crutch and stuck it under his arm. "Move it, kid."

"No." Alan let the crutch fall.

Linley's mouth hardened and he drew his blaster. "I said move it."

Alan's throat was dry and his heart pounded uncomfortably against his ribs. The patrolman was a commanding presence and easily a third again his own mass. He was fairly sure Linley wouldn't kill him, but if he wanted to, the man could make mincemeat out of him in muscle power alone. Besides, Alan was sure the blaster now pointed at him was equipped with a needle beam setting. Such beams wouldn't kill, unless aimed at a vital organ, but they were agonizingly painful if correctly employed. The Commander bent picked up the crutch again, extending it toward Alan. "Take it."

He shook his head, stomach knotting. The Viceregal Patrol had very bad reputation for its heavy-handed tactics, and he was now defying a Strike Commander of that infamous profession. What would Linley do about it?

The Strike Commander stared at him a long moment. Alan could feel the sweat running down his face. He clutched a tree, moving as far away from the man as his injured leg permitted. Linley adjusted the blaster and came a step nearer, his face grim. "Don't push me, kid," he said quietly. "I can be just as mean as the next 'trol if I hafta."

Alan bit his lip. The man looked like a giant, and the blaster glinted dully in the rays of the sun. Linley extended the crutch. "This is your last warnin'. Let's go."

Very slowly, he took the crude device. "Okay," he said, sullenly.

Linley holstered his blaster, and Alan read relief on his features.

"That's a good kid." His voice was abruptly cheerful again. "Take it easy, now. I'll go slow." He reached down, picking up the restrainers from the ground. Alan recoiled.

"No!" he pleaded. "Please don't!"

Linley hesitated, shackles in hand. "Kid. I've gotta. That's the rules -- prisoners are to restrained at all times. We ain't even supposed to take 'em off when you eat."

"Please don't!" Alan shrank away.

Linley hesitated a moment longer, then grinned and clipped the restrainers to his belt. "Okay, you win. Guess it'd be devilish hard to use that damned crutch with these things on an' you can't exactly do much runnin', anyway. But you stay close, an' no tricks. Got it?"

Alan nodded, leaning on his crutch. "Okay, sir," he said, quietly.

The Strike Commander took his elbow, and together they started away through the trees.


III


Strike Commander Linley of the Viceregal Peace Patrol stepped over a fallen log, then turned to assist his prisoner. The boy was short but compactly built, moving lightly and almost gracefully on the rickety crutch.

He boosted Alan easily over the log, feeling the boy flinch again from his touch. Linley sighed inwardly. The kid was afraid of him. He wished he hadn't needed to use scare tactics earlier, but when Alan had refused to go along peacefully, he hadn't had a choice. He regretted it, though. Westover had saved his life, after all, and he seemed like such a nice, altogether likeable little cuss ... He swore softly under his breath.

"Howya doin', kid?" he asked.

"All right." Westover didn't look at him.

"You tell me if you need a rest. Okay?"

"Sure." The boy still wouldn't look at him.

Another silence. Linley's thoughts returned to the moment when the creature had charged. He and Mac together hadn't been able to kill the thing. It had taken this half-grown kid to accomplish the task. Why the devil had he done it? If he'd just run, the critter would most likely have killed both patrolmen, and he would have gotten away, for as far as Linley knew none of the other search parties were anywhere near the vicinity. He grinned to himself. He was glad the kid had decided to be a hero, but poor little Alan Westover was probably kicking himself for the action now.

He glanced at his prisoner again. "What'd you do, kiddo?" he asked. "C'mon, I won't tell the big boss anythin', but I'd really like t'know. Didja punch a Jil in the belly button or somethin'?"

Alan didn't smile.

"Kid?"

"I didn't do anything." His prisoner's eyes met his squarely. They were large, and the brightest green that Linley had ever seen, and had an unnerving way of looking directly at you that made him a little uneasy. He shifted a bit uncomfortably.

"Aw, c'mon, kid," he continued. "The Jils don't go to this kinda trouble for no reason. There's gotta be somethin'."

Alan's gaze didn't waver. "Suppose you tell me," he suggested. "What did they say about me, Strike Commander Linley?"

Linley raised an eyebrow at him. "They said you were a dangerous criminal -- desperate an' dangerous. We were to use extreme caution. I was expectin' some kinda monster, believe me. When Mac an' me finally caughtcha, you coulda knocked me over with a feather."

"A dangerous criminal?" Westover sounded genuinely astonished. "They called me that?"

"Their very words," Linley told him. "So c'mon, 'fess up. I gotta tellya right now, it won't do no good to lie to Salthvor. So what did you do t'make 'im so stinkin' mad?"

Alan shook his head helplessly. "I don't know! I've never met Salthvor -- or any other Jilectan. I don't know why he's mad at me."

The conversation was obviously going nowhere fast. Linley frowned thoughtfully. Either the kid was the slickest actor he'd ever met, or he really was telling the truth. Was it possible he really didn't know?

Alan gave a sharp exclamation as the crutch turned. Linley caught him before he fell. "Gotcha."

He felt the boy flinch again. "Easy, kid. I ain't gonna hurtcha -- not s'long as you do what you're told."

No reply. Again they went along in silence. Alan was watching him covertly.

"A dangerous criminal!" He repeated suddenly. "That doesn't make any sense at all. I haven't ..." He stopped, looking puzzled. "What kinds of things do Terrans have to do to make the Jilectans mad, sir? Maybe I did something I don't know about?"

"Maybe," Linley said, dubiously. "What's been goin' on in your life for the last few days, kiddo?"

His prisoner was frowning. "I can't think of anything," he said, at last. "I'm a cadet at the Terran Space Academy, though. I guess that might have something to do with it. Space cadets don't think much of the Jilectans."

"Or the Patrol," Linley said, and saw the boy flush. "Jils don't care what Terrans think, kid. Not s'long as we keep our thoughts to ourselves."

His prisoner gave a reluctant grin. "Well, we don't really keep our opinions secret, but most of our remarks are exchanged between each other. I don't think I'm any worse than the next guy."

He laughed. "'Trols are the same way."

"Really?" Alan looked at him in obvious surprise. "You guys don't like the Jils either?"

"Nope." Linley took his arm again as the ground started to slope upward. The boy didn't flinch this time.

"Then why do you work for them?" he asked.

Linley raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were talkin' about you. You sure you ain't mouthed off to any Jils lately?"

"Positive."

"Do you belong to the Terran Underground?"

Alan laughed.

"I'm serious," Linley said. "There's a lotta Underground agents hangin' around on Terra. If you were identified by an informer at a meetin', or somethin' ..."

Alan was shaking his head. "I'm a third year cadet at Terran Space Academy. I don't have time for meetings, or things like that. Since my parents died I've had to pay my own way through -- and it hasn't been easy, believe me. I've had to work and keep up with my classes, too."

Linley looked thoughtfully at him. So far the boy's history sounded pretty innocuous. "What kind of work do you do?" he asked.

"Just about everything. For awhile I was an assistant in ship maintenance, but it began to interfere with my classes." Alan sighed. "So now I'm a busboy at the Academy Coffee Shop. It's awful, but it's evening work and it pays my tuition -- well, some of it, anyway."

"You're in your third year? You said you were only eighteen."

"I am." Alan turned pink.

"Got in early, huh?"

He nodded. "I was supposed to graduate next year -- before all this." He glanced up at Linley's face, then looked down. "I'm in the honor society, and I've won two scholarships, which sure helped with the finances ..." He stopped.

"You must be a pretty smart kid," Linley remarked. "Honor society, huh?"

"Yes."

"Teachers all like you?"

He nodded again. "I thought they did ... until ..."

"'Til what?"

Alan frowned. "I went to one of them for help when the Patrol came after me. He told me to get out or he'd turn me in."

Linley was silent a moment. "The guy was scared," he said at last. "You get on the bad side o' the Patrol, an' they'll turn you over to the Jils. Don't hold it against your teacher. I'm sure it wasn't nothin' personal."

Alan looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. "I guess not."

"How'd the Patrol find you, anyway? What was goin' on when they came after you wavin' their blasters?"

"Don't you know?" Alan looked at him in surprise.

"Nope." Linley shook his head. "I didn't get called in 'til after you'd already taken off. The 'Wolverine' was docked at the Patrol base on Phobos. They don't usually send Strike Commanders to make arrests, y'know."

"Then why ...?"

"Why am I here now?" Linley grimaced. "Kid, when a Jil says go, you go. 'Sides, I didn't like the idea o' spendin' all that time on the ship alone with a bad tempered Jil, anyway. You ain't answered my question, though. What was goin' on?"

Alan started to answer, then yelped as his stocking foot came down on a thorny creeper. Linley caught him under the arms, lifting him lightly over the barbs. "Okay?"

"Ouch! Darn it!" Alan lowered himself to the ground and pulled the thorn from his heel.

"You get it out?" Linley sat down beside him.

"Yeah." Alan rubbed his heel. "I'm tired."

"We can rest a minute." Linley unhooked the canteen from his belt. "Want a drink?"

"Thanks." Alan tilted the container up. Linley allowed him to drink his fill, then took the canteen back, swigging from it himself. His prisoner watched in silence. Linley grinned at him and replaced the canteen on his belt.

"Now, as you were about to say?"

"Huh? Oh, the patrolmen. I was just coming out of my classes -- the last one of the day -- and started down the steps of the building, when all of a sudden a whole squad of Viceregal patrolmen came thundering right up the steps toward me -- blasters drawn, no less."

"That so?"

Alan nodded. "Well, I ran, of course. There were patrolmen everywhere, looking for me, but I managed to get to one of my professors, thinking he would help me. Dr. Schupp -- I ... I always liked him a lot. I begged him for help, but he wouldn't ..." Alan fell silent, biting his lip. "I ... I suppose you're right," he continued, at last. "He must have been awfully scared of the Jils to turn away one of his own students ..."

Linley rested a hand on his shoulder. "I've seen people turn their own family away when the Patrol's after 'im. If anybody's caught helpin' a criminal escape, the Jils kill 'em right along with the fugitive. Mr. Schupp was good to letcha go. Actually, he shoulda turned you in."

His prisoner looked fearfully at him. "You won't tell on him, will you?"

"Nah." Linley shrugged. "I won't say nothin' unless I'm asked."

"Thanks." Alan looked relieved. "I wouldn't want him to get in trouble."

"So then what happened?" He took the boy's arm, helping him to rise.

"Well, I got out and made it to the flight deck while the Patrol was still searching the building for me. I took one of the Academy's skipperships -- we use 'em for training the brand new cads in the basics -- and headed out of the System. Unfortunately, I forgot to check the power meter before takeoff." Alan shook his head disgustedly.

"You led us one helluva chase, though," Linley told him, with genuine respect. "I thought we never were gonna catch you."

Alan's features relaxed into a smile. "How did you know I'd headed for Centauri?"

"Easy." Linley grinned. "Salthvor asked the flight instructor an' found out the ship you took was mighty low on power. You couldn'ta gone anyplace else."

"That's what I figured." Alan sighed. "Oh, well ..."

The sun was sinking behind the trees and the air became chilly. Linley glanced at the boy beside him, an unfamiliar and very unpleasant sensation nagging at him. It took a moment of study before he identified it. The sensation was pity. It had been so long since Strike Commander Mark Linley had felt sorry for anybody that he had failed to recognize the emotion at first.

The realization shook him. Patrolmen didn't feel sorry for their prisoners. They couldn't afford such luxuries. He scowled, trying to dismiss the feeling. Alan looked up at him. "So, that's my story, sir. What do you make of it?"

Linley shrugged. "How'd you know they were after you?'

"Huh?" The boy's eyes widened at the harshness in his tone. "What do you mean?"

"You know damn well what I mean. When the Patrol came after you on the stairs, how'd you know they were after you in particular?"

A red tinge crept into Alan's cheeks. "I knew! They were coming right at me!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"An' you were all alone? Weren't there other people around?"

Alan's eyes widened even more, then fell.

"Well, kid?" Linley felt another twinge of pity, and pushed it back forcibly. "What'sa matter? Afraid to answer that one?'

"There were other people around." Alan's reply was barely audible.

"Nearby? Near enough so the 'trols mighta been after them, 'stead o' you?"

The boy's flush deepened.

"Maybe you were even walkin' with somebody, huh?"

His prisoner was staring at the ground.

"Did the guy you were walkin' with run from the Patrol?"

Alan's face came up, his green eyes bright with anger in the twilight. "Why the heck do you care, sir? I'm guilty -- that's what you've decided, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Linley said, wishing he could make his tone more convincing. "Yeah, that's what I've decided,"

The boy's expression became hostile. "I'm not guilty! I didn't do anything!"

Linley shrugged carelessly. "That's what you keep sayin', kid -- and yet you ran. You musta realized right away that they were after you, or you wouldn'ta took off like that. The guy with you didn't run, did he?"

"It was a girl," Alan said.

"Huh?"

"I was walking with a girl."

Linley stared at him, disarmed by the irrelevancy of the remark. "Well, did she run?"

Alan didn't answer for a moment, then he shook his head. "No, she didn't run. She just got out of the way." He pivoted on the crutch. "I'm not guilty!"

Linley shrugged. "I've hunted down a lotta fugitives in my time, kid. I never caught one yet who didn't protest an' shout his innocence all the way back."

No answer.

The air had become cooler as the sky overhead darkened. One of Midgard's two moons appeared, glowing yellow above the trees. The ground began to slant up again, and Linley saw Alan flinch, although his prisoner made no sound. Looking down, he realized the ground beneath their feet was thick with briars, while more thorny underbrush rose up on all sides. He hadn't even noticed! Poor kid! His feet must be full of holes. Linley looked at the boy's set face, feeling a little ashamed and suddenly very sorry.

"Here, kid." He reached out a hand. "Lemme help ..."

Alan jerked away from his captor's touch, almost losing his balance. Linley felt sympathy dissolve into irritation. "C'mon, kid," he said. "Quit sulkin'. You can't blame me for bein' a little cynical in my profession."

"Your profession!" Alan said, scornfully. "If I was in your profession I'd be ashamed to tell anybody -- hunting down your own people for Jilec--." He bit off the word and turned defiantly to face the Commander.

Linley's mouth tightened. "Watch it, kid," he said, ominously.

"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" Alan blazed.

Linley took a menacing step forward. "Just remember, kid, I could make things a helluva lot harder on you if I felt like it. The Jils said to bring you in alive -- not one word about keepin' you in good shape. I'm breakin' the rules right now, lettin' you wiggle outta havin' the cuffs on, but if you give me any more lip ..."

"Put 'em on!" Alan retorted, angrily. "Go ahead, for Pete's sake! I wouldn't want you to get in *trouble*!"

They glowered at each other, and Linley took an instant to wonder why he was arguing with an idiotic kid, and why it should matter at all to him what Alan thought. It didn't matter, he told himself, firmly. Not in the slightest.

"Cool it, kid." He spoke carelessly. "You're a cute youngster, and I'd like t'make things as easy on you as I can. But I really don't give a damn about you, so don't push me ..."

Alan was red in the face. "Go ahead, put 'em on! I might make a break for it any moment! But I warn you, if you do you'll have to carry me, and I'm a lot heavier than I look!"

"Yeah, you're a regular superman, ain'tcha -- strong of limb an pure of heart. But don't get the idea I'm gonna carry you, sonny, 'cause restrainers or not you're gonna walk every step o' the way!"

"I don't care!" Alan said, defiantly. "You'd love to hear me say I'm guilty, wouldn't you? It'd make you feel so much better ..."

"Well, if you want it straight, kid, I think you're guilty as hell, so you can just quit ..."

"That's a lie!" Alan shouted. "It's what you *want* to believe, but you're not sure, are you? Well, Strike Commander Linley, you just keep right on burying your head in the sand if it makes you feel any better. I haven't done anything, and no ... no Jilectan bootlicker is going to drag a false confession out of me, so you can just quit trying! It won't work!"

"You're on mighty thin ice, kid ..."

Alan's voice rose recklessly. "I don't care! I've got nothing to lose! I'm in for it anyway, so what does it matter if you start the rough stuff now or in a couple of days? Go on use your muscle! You 'trols are good at that, I hear! It's a terrific argument when you haven't got any other answer!"

Linley took another step forward, gritting his teeth. He'd been sassed by prisoners before, but never like this. So far, every remark Alan had made had struck unerringly home, and yet the kid had managed to chew him out without using a single cussword. That fact, for some reason, made the boy's cutting remarks all the more insulting.

"You tryin' to get hurt, kid?" he inquired tightly. "Button your lip before I ..."

Alan laughed scornfully. "Do it, sir! Beat me up! Kill me, if you like! Go on! Save your good buddy, Lord Salthvor, a little trouble!"

"Dammit!" Linley stared at the boy in helpless fury. He forced back the anger through sheer willpower. "Look, kid, I can see how you feel, but I can't put up with this. I don't wanna be tough on you, but you're pushin' me into it. Say you're sorry, an' I'll forget the whole thing ..."

"I'm *not* sorry! Go on, put the restrainers on! You're bigger than me, and a lot stronger! You can do anything you like, and there's no way I can stop you! Put 'em on, slap me around a little, and haul me back to your boss in proper style! You'll get a commendation, no doubt, catching a dangerous criminal like me!"

Linley reached down, grasped the boy by his collar, dragged him forward, and shook him until his teeth rattled. "Listen, you young idiot, you just keep a civil tongue in you head, or, by the stars, I'll ..."

"Do it!" Alan shouted at him. "Go ahead!"

"You watch your mouth, you little runt! I know a hundred ways to set you screamin' in less'n ten seconds, and if you don't ..."

"I'm sure you do!" Alan interrupted. "I've heard all about you big, brave 'trols! You're good at making people scream -- especially people who can't fight back!"

Linley shook him again. "So you think you know all about the Viceregal Patrol, huh? One more word outta you, kid, an' you're gonna get a real education about what 'trols can do!" He lifted Alan lightly from the ground, hearing the boy's choked gasp. "Say you're sorry, dammit!"

Alan was still, his expression mirroring contempt. The scene held static for a full ten seconds, and Linley's heart sank. He was going to have to carry through. If he let the kid get away with this he'd have no end of trouble before this blasted trip was over. Funny that it should bother him so much ...

Alan seemed to read his thoughts, for Linley saw him stiffen, trying not to flinch back. Slowly, Linley lifted a clenched fist, his grasp tightening. His prisoner's eyes widened slightly, but didn't waver.

He couldn't breathe. There was a choking sensation in his throat, and a pain in his ankle. An odd sensation of fear ran over him. His heart began to pound as he stared into Alan's eyes, his fist five centimeters from the boy's nose.

He couldn't do it. Try as he might, he couldn't force himself to hit the boy. As the seconds passed, Alan slowly relaxed. Linley realized abruptly that the pain in his ankle was gone, as was the tightness in his throat. He could breathe easily again. The boy's eyes were searching his, but were no longer scornful. In sudden exasperation Linley released him, hurling him away.

Alan cried out as he hit, the sprained ankle giving beneath his weight. He staggered backwards and fell with a crash into the thorny underbrush.

For a moment, Linley didn't move. He stared at the boy's prone form, his anger draining away. Alan writhed a little in the grasp of the thorns, then became still. "Ouch," he said in a muffled voice.

Suddenly ashamed of himself, Linley bent over him. "You okay?"

"Sure," came the muffled reply.

"Hang on. I'll getcha out." With care, he untangled the dark curls from the matted brambles, unsnagged the boy's shirt, and lifted him free. Alan sank to the ground, clutching his ankle, and Linley winced at the scratches on his captive's face.

"Man! You're a mess!"

"I'm all right." Alan looked up at him, dabbing at the blood running down his chin. "Do you feel better now, sir?"

"Shuddup, squirt." The Strike Commander scowled darkly. "Lemme see that foot."

"It'll be okay."

"Do as you're told." Linley stretched the leg out and began to unwind the bandage.

Alan didn't reply, but remained passive as he undid the wrappings. The ankle was swollen and discolored, and Linley examined it, cussing under his breath. How the hell was Alan going to keep going for another two days on that? He wondered if Salthvor might get tired of waiting before they could make it back to the ship and leave. In a way it might make things easier if His Lordship did just that ...

He began to rewrap the ankle, busy with his thoughts. What the devil would he do if Salthvor did leave? The country was wilderness, and, although there might be settlements within walking distance, they might wander for weeks before encountering one ...

"I guess you're not going to hit me after all, huh?" Alan's subdued voice cut into his thoughts, and Linley glanced up. The boy was watching him, his green eyes still glowing faintly in the dimness. Linley returned his gaze, trying to re-summon his anger and failing.

"Nah!" he said, suddenly too tired and disgusted to continue the struggle. "You're safe."

Alan's features relaxed. "You had me really scared for a minute."

"Aw, hell!" Linley fastened the bandage and sat back on his heels, regarding his prisoner unhappily. "I'm a damn sucker when it comes to you, kiddo. But look, you'd better watch that mouth of yours, 'cause it's gonna getcha in trouble when we get back to the ship. Most 'trols ain't as easy goin' as I am."

Alan smiled disarmingly. "Most 'trols aren't as nice as you are."

He laughed, the sobered. "Hey, I'm sorry. I know you've been havin' a helluva time. I didn't mean to make it worse."

Alan looked down, blinking, and Linley saw him rub a hand across his eyes. He swallowed hard. "You believe me, don't you?" His voice was choked.

Mark Linley stared at him helplessly. He did believe the boy. Without proof, and totally without reason, he believed him.

Alan looked up at him and swallowed again. "I'm innocent, Mark. I swear it."

"Okay." Mark spoke gently. "I do believe you, but it don't really matter. It's the Jils you're gonna hafta convince."

Alan nodded simply. "I know. But I'm glad you believe me, anyway." He smiled again, his face very young in the half-light. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't have any right to flare up at you like that. You've treated me well so far -- a ... a lot better that I expected to be treated by a ... by a ..."

"By a damn 'trol," Mark said. He grinned. "Skip it. Lots o' the stories you hear about the Patrol are true, but in this business we gotta watch after our hides. Some o' the things that happen get done 'cause a prisoner tries to get away, an' when a prisoner gets away, somebody hasta answer. It ain't much fun standin' in front o' some Jil, havin' to admit to a mistake, believe me."

"I can imagine," Alan said.

"No you can't," Mark said, feelingly. "Not unless you've done it. You think you've heard bad things about us 'trols. Lotsa Jils don't care a whole lot for us Terrans, y'know. Try getting' socked by one o' them, sometime."

Alan's eyes widened. "Have you been hit by a Jil?"

"Yeah." Linley grinned wryly.

"Really?"

"Really."

"What for?"

Mark's grin broadened. "Which time?"

"You mean it's happened more than once?"

"Sure." Mark laughed. "Salthvor's pasted me a couple o' times. He's one o' the Jils that gets on his high horse 'cause we have the nerve to look sorta like them. 'Specially us blond ones," He ran a hand through his hair. "He starts broodin' about that, an' any old excuse'll do."

"You mean Lord Salthvor goes around beating up the Strike Commanders of his battlecruisers?"

"I ain't always been a Strike Commander, y'know. The first time it happened I was a lowly corporal."

"But what did he hit you for?"

Mark slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "For somethin' I can't talk about -- 'specially to a prisoner. C'mon. We gotta get goin'." He stood up, helping Alan to rise. "Where's that damned crutch?"

"Over there."

Mark retrieved it. "Here. I'll give you a hand. We gotta get outta these brambles an' make camp before all the light's gone, 'specially since we'll hafta circle that damned swamp tomorrow. There's no way you're gonna get through that muck in the shape your foot's in. Let's make tracks."

But it was not destined to be. Night fell long before they made it out of the bramble patch, and with the darkness came drizzling rain. Mark glanced sideways at his prisoner, a little annoyed with himself for having dismissed the boy's verbal attack on him so readily. Maybe he was getting soft in his old age. He shrugged mentally. Oh, what the hell. The kid had been fighting with the only weapon he had, and Linley couldn't blame him for that. What a helluva spot to be in! Poor kid! What the devil did the Jils want with him, anyway?

He swore savagely as wet brambles snagged him by the hair, showering them both with large, icy drops. Alan waited patiently as he disentangled himself, managing in the process to run a thorn under his thumbnail. He swore again, sucking the offended member. "Ain't there any end to these damned things?"

"I'm beginning to wonder," Alan said. "My feet have more holes in them than a pincushion."

Mark grimaced. "I guess you're gettin' the worst of this, ain'tcha?" He flashed the light around. "C'mon. They can't go on forever."

"I'm not so sure of that," Alan said, his teeth chattering.

Something scurried away at their noisy approach, grunting hoarsely, and a moment later a dark shape swooped past their faces, making them both recoil. Alan lost his balance again and lurched to the side. Linley grabbed him before he could fall, feeling him wince.

"You all right?"

"Yeah." The boy lifted his bad ankle and rubbed it. "Stepped on another thorn."

"Careful. Stay with the light." Mark took a firmer grip on his arm. Alan was shaking, fatigue beginning to take its toll. They went on a dozen more steps, and he yipped again.

He sank to the ground, examining his feet, then glanced up. "Why don't we just camp here tonight?" he suggested, tiredly. "If I try to go on anymore I'm going to cripple myself for life."

Linley sighed. "Get on."

"What?"

"Get on my back. I said I wasn't gonna carry you, but if I don't we're gonna be pussyfootin' through this blasted bramble patch all night. C'mon, upsey daisy."

"Do you think you can?" Alan asked somewhat dubiously. "I'm pretty heavy."

"Sure you are." Mark caught him by the wrist and swung him up one-handed. "Hang on and keep your head down."

Alan clung to his shoulders like a monkey as he strode on. "Mark?"

"Yeah?" Linley snagged his hair again and swore wearily. Alan unhooked him.

"What was that thing that killed MacKinzie? I ran into a couple of 'em while I was running away from you."

"You did what?"

He felt his prisoner nod. "Three, actually. What are they?"

"Those things are the dinosaurs of Midgard," Linley said. "I guess they ain't really dinosaurs, o' course, but they look sorta like 'em, don'tcha think?"

"They sure do," Alan said. "I've heard about Midgard's dinosaurs, but somehow I didn't imagine them being so big."

"Yeah, me neither. How'd you get away from 'em, anyway? You didn't even have a blaster!"

"Oh, I saw them, but they didn't see me," Alan said, lightly, "I was careful to steer clear of them, you bet."

"No kiddin'!" Linley said.

The thicket of brambles was becoming less dense now, and Mark flashed his light around, searching for a good campsite. The rain still fell, cold and uncomfortable, drenching their clothing, and Alan clung tightly to him shivering. Something hooted mournfully in the distance, and the sound was answered by wild, idiotic laughter from the tree overhead. Linley drew his blaster, glancing nervously upward. The thing laughed again, close enough to raise the hair on his head. Alan stirred and spoke unexpectedly.

"It's okay. I know what it is. It won't hurt us."

"You sure?" Linley glanced up again as the laughter sounded once more, escalating to a nerve-grating pitch.

"Yes, I'm sure." Alan sounded tired but completely calm. "I had one follow me about six kilometers while I was running from you. They're just curious about us."

He paused, glancing back at his passenger. "How do you know? Just because the one that followed you didn't attack doesn't mean this one ain't gonna."

He felt the boy shrug. "Don't worry."

The laughter began again, echoed a moment later by more laughter, farther ahead. Hoping fervently that Alan was right, Linley kept moving.

Eventually they reached a small, open space beneath a spreading tree. Mark shook the water from his eyes, shining the light around. "Kid?"

Alan jerked awake. "Yes?"

"We're outta the stickers, an' I think we better stop here before we run into anythin' hungry." He let his passenger slide to the ground. "Siddown an' put your foot up."

Alan rubbed his eyes and sank gingerly onto a fallen log. "Everything's wet."

"Yeah, I'd noticed." Linley wiped a sleeve across his face. The rain was lessening, but the leaves around them still dripped moisture, and the air was biting cold. He began to gather firewood. "Feel like some hot fo

"I'm beginning to wonder," Alan said. "My feet have more holes in them than a pincushion."

Mark grimaced. "I guess you're gettin' the worst of this, ain'tcha?" He flashed the light around. C'mon. They can't go on forever."

"I'm not so sure of that," Alan said, his teeth chattering.

Something scurried away at their noisy approach, grunting hoarsely, and a moment later a dark shape swooped past their faces, making them both recoil. Alan lost his balance again and lurched to the side. Linley grabbed him before he could fall, feeling him wince.

"You all right?"

"Yeah." The boy lifted his bad ankle and rubbed it. "Stepped on another thorn."

"Careful. Stay with the light." Mark took a firmer grip on his arm. Alan was shaking, fatigue beginning to take its toll. They went on a dozen more steps, and he yipped again.

He sank to the ground, examining his feet, then glanced up. "Why don't we just camp here tonight?" he suggested, tiredly. "If I try to go on anymore I'm going to cripple myself for life."

Linley sighed. "Get on."

"What?"

"Get on my back. I said I wasn't gonna carry you, but if I don't we're gonna be pussyfootin' through this blasted bramble patch all night. C'mon, upsey daisy."

"Do you think you can?" Alan asked somewhat dubiously. "I'm pretty heavy."

"Sure you are." Mark caught him by the wrist and swung him up one-handed. "Hang on and keep your head down."

Alan clung to his shoulders like a monkey as he strode on. "Mark?"

"Yeah?" Linley snagged his hair again and swore wearily. Alan unhooked him.

"What was that thing that killed MacKinzie? I ran into a couple of 'em while I was running away from you."

"You did what?"

He felt his prisoner nod. "Three, actually. What are they?"

"Those things are the dinosaurs of Midgard," Linley said. "I guess they ain't really dinosaurs, o' course, but they look sorta like 'em, don'tcha think?"

"They sure do," Alan said. "I've heard about Midgard's dinosaurs, but somehow I didn't imagine them being so big."

"Yeah, me neither. How'd you get away from 'em, anyway? You didn't even have a blaster!"

"Oh, I saw them, but they didn't see me," Alan said, lightly, "I was careful to steer clear of them, you bet."

"No kiddin'!" Linley said.

The thicket of brambles was becoming less dense now, and Mark flashed his light around, searching for a good campsite. The rain still fell, cold and uncomfortable, drenching their clothing, and Alan clung tightly to him shivering. Something hooted mournfully in the distance, and the sound was answered by wild, idiotic laughter from the tree overhead. Linley drew his blaster, glancing nervously upward. The thing laughed again, close enough to raise the hair on his head. Alan stirred and spoke unexpectedly.

"It's okay. I know what it is. It won't hurt us."

"You sure?" Linley glanced up again as the laughter sounded once more, escalating to a nerve-grating pitch.

"Yes, I'm sure." Alan sounded tired but completely calm. "I had one follow me about six kilometers while I was running from you. They're just curious about us."

He paused, glancing back at his passenger. "How do you know? Just because the one that followed you didn't attack doesn't mean this one ain't gonna."

He felt the boy shrug. "Don't worry."

The laughter began again, echoed a moment later by more laughter, farther ahead. Hoping fervently that Alan was right, Linley kept moving.

Eventually they reached a small, open space beneath a spreading tree. Mark shook the water from his eyes, shining the light around. "Kid?"

Alan jerked awake. "Yes?"

"We're outta the stickers, an' I think we better stop here before we run into anythin' hungry." He let his passenger slide to the ground. "Siddown an' put your foot up."

Alan rubbed his eyes and sank gingerly onto a fallen log. "Everything's wet."

"Yeah, I'd noticed." Linley wiped a sleeve across his face. The rain was lessening, but the leaves around them still dripped moisture, and the air was biting cold. He began to gather firewood. "Feel like some hot food tonight?"

"How are you going to get it lit?" Alan asked, glancing doubtfully at the soaked wood.

"You have no faith, youngster." Linley grinned, drawing his blaster. He made a minor adjustment to the weapon and fired. A dull beam of light emerged from the muzzle, setting the wood to smoking furiously. There was a soft hiss, then the crackle of igniting flames.

Alan was watching him with admiration. "You sure are good with that thing."

Linley cocked an eyebrow at him, feeling unreasonably pleased at the compliment. "I gotta be," he said gruffly. "It goes with the job, y'know."

"Yes, I know." The boy sounded a little sheepish. "Sorry about that remark back there. I was sort of mad at you."

"If that was a little mad, I hope I never see you really steamed up." He gave a laugh at Alan's expression. "Don't worry about it. I ain't insulted. You oughtta be a debater, though. You go right for the jugular."

Alan sounded surprised. "I'm president of my class's debating team."

"Oh yeah?" The information was vaguely disturbing. "Well, I ain't a bit surprised." Turning, he took rations from his pack and Alan moved closer to the fire, warming his hands. Raindrops hissed into the flames.

"Hungry?" Linley opened the cans and propped them on the outer edge of the campfire.

"Starving."

The creature overhead laughed wildly again, and Mark made a face. "That critter better not come too close. "I'm awful damn sick o' field rations, an' I sure could do with a nice, thick, juicy steak tonight."

"They tasted pretty good to me," Alan said.

"Yeah, that's because you hadn't had nothin' for over two days. How's the foot, by the way? Wish I had somethin' t'heat water in. Might help if you could soak it."

"It'll be all right," Alan said. "Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you suppose the Jilectans want me for?"

"I dunno." Mark rubbed a thumb across the blond stubble on his chin. "I've been tryin' t'make sense o' the whole thing. Listen, has anythin' unusual happened to you lately?"

"Yes," Alan said. "I was arrested by the Viceregal Patrol."

Linley grinned wryly. "Besides that, I mean. Has anythin' happened that mighta made somebody want to get ridda you?"

"Not that I can think of."

An idea occurred to Linley, and he considered it reluctantly, frowning thoughtfully at his young prisoner. "Have you done anythin' to draw attention to yourself lately? Have you been on the video, or in the newsstrip or somethin'?"

Alan's eyes widened. "How did you know?"

"Ah! Which one was it? What was it all about?"

Alan shook his head dubiously. "I don't see how it could have anything to do with what's happening now."

"You let me decide that. Tell me about it."

"Sure." Alan shrugged. "It's no secret or anything. Last week I won a contest -- one of those silly advertising gimmicks, you know? 'Play Pool Poker' -- guess the number of Poker chips in the pool. Person who guesses closest wins a genuine, Body Beautiful Swimming Pool."

Mark laughed incredulously. "You won a swimmin' pool?"

"Pretty stupid, actually," Alan admitted, sheepishly. "I didn't even have a place to put the pool when I won it. They compensated me with a thousand credits -- pretty cheap for a swimming pool, huh? Anyway, tuition being what it is, I was happy to get the money and sacrifice the pool."

"And that's how you got on the video?"

"Oh, no, I wasn't on the video. They did a human interest story on me, and it was in the newsstrip. You see, the person who got closest to the right number was supposed to win the pool. But I guessed the exact number."

"No kiddin'? You hit it on the nose?"

Alan nodded. "The statistics guy who interviewed me said the odds against doing that were ... oh, I forget what, but pretty close to impossible."

"How many chips were in the pool?" Linley inquired, interested.

"Uh ... let me see if I remember. Three million, four hundred and twenty-seven thousand, seven hundred and thirty-six."

Mark whistled.

"Pretty wild, huh?" Alan stared into the fire. "You see, though, that couldn't have anything to do with what's going on now. Who cares about a thousand credits?"

Linley was silent, that faint, unwelcome suspicion again crawling through his mind. He supposed it could be merely a coincidence, but his analytical mind tended to regard such events with suspicion. He hoped fervently that he was wrong.

Something hooted mournfully in the distance and Alan shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his ankle.

"Where are you from, Mark?" he asked suddenly. "I've never heard an accent like yours before. It isn't from the Confederation, is it?"

Linley grinned. "Sure isn't," he admitted, glad for the diversion. "I'm from Shallock. That's one of the Jil planets, in case you don't know. The Jils let some o' the lower species live there, to keep 'em as cheap labor, y'know. They say we speak a whole different brand o' Basic there."

The boy smiled faintly. "You do." He stared into the fire a moment longer, then his gaze flicked back to Mark. "Since you believe I'm innocent, why not let me go? I ..." He stopped at the expression on Linley's face. "Please Mark?"

Linley shook his head decisively. "Don't start workin' on me, kid."

"The Jilectans don't know you've caught me. "They'll never ..."

"You're forgettin' the communicators," Mark said. "Mac an' me called in right after we nabbed you. If I come in without you now, my hide'll be on the line."

"But you don't have to say I got away. You could say I was killed by the same creature that killed MacKinzie ..."

"Have you ever tried lyin' to a Jil?" Linley demanded, unreasonably irritated. "You can't do it. They're psychics, remember? It ain't no fable. They can look right into your mind, and they know it if you lie. You saved my skin, an' I'd like to pay you back, but I can't do it that way. I gotta take you in."

Alan's shoulders slumped, and he stared at the ground. Linley watched him uncomfortably. "Look, kid ..."

Alan didn't raise his head. "They're going to kill me," he said, stonily.

Again that unwelcome suspicion. Linley frowned, trying to dismiss it. "Alan, how do you know that? Is there somethin' you're not tellin' me?"

A shake of the head. "I know. I haven't done anything, and they're going to kill me. I can feel it."

Silence again. Linley rubbed a thumb across his jaw, feeling the bristles grate on his skin.

"Why the hell should they?" He spoke suddenly and almost angrily, trying to convince himself that those half-formed suspicions weren't true. "Except for that poisonous vocabulary o' yours when you're mad, I've never met such a harmless kid in my life." He reached into the fire unthinkingly, grasping one of the cans. "Ouch! Dammit t'hell!"

Alan picked up a small stick and absently wiggled the can from the coals.

"There you are." He began to push the other can out. Linley sucked his thumb and finger, favoring the can with an unlikely and colorful description of its parental origins. Alan didn't smile.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Linley scowled darkly into the dancing flames.


IV


Alan's head nodded forward, and Mark stood up. "Let's hit the sack, kiddo. We got a long day tomorrow."

"Okay." His prisoner watched as he opened his pack, taking out two of the thin emergency blankets.

"Here you go." He tossed one to Alan and dropped the other beside the fire. The boy lay down, wrapping the cover around himself. He glanced up in puzzlement at his captor.

"What's wrong, Mark?"

Linley cleared his throat. "I gotta put the restrainers on you, an' tie your feet. Sorry."

Alan was silent as Linley removed the shackles from his belt. Mark looked at them, then at the small figure on the ground before him. "There ain't no choice, kid. I gotta get some sleep."

No answer. Linley knelt beside his prisoner, restrainers in hand, and, to his fury, found himself apologizing again. "Aw, hell, Alan, I'm sorry. I don't wanna do it, but how the devil ..."

"It's all right," Alan said, quietly. He extended his wrists. Mark opened his mouth to say Alan's hands must be cuffed behind him, but stopped, feeling more miserable than he could ever remember feeling before. What the blazes was wrong with him, anyway? He'd never felt like this about other prisoners! Their guilt or innocence had always been a matter of supreme indifference to him, and no amount of charm had ever caused him to relax his clinical detachment in the least. He must be going out of his mind!

Alan was still watching him. He closed his mouth, and as gently as possible applied the restrainers, then drew a short coil of rope from his pack. The boy remained still as Linley bound his feet firmly together.

"There. That okay? They ain't too tight?"

"It's fine." His prisoner lay down. "Don't feel so bad. I understand." He closed his eyes.

Linley wished he did. He lay down on the other side of the campfire, covering himself with the emergency blanket. Alan was still, his breathing quiet and even, already asleep to all appearances. Linley stirred restlessly, swearing softly to himself. He was tired, but not sleepy. His thoughts spun in useless circles.

The fire was dying down, and he raised himself on one elbow to toss half a dozen pieces of wood into the flames, then glanced over at his prisoner again. In the faint light of the campfire, Alan appeared about fourteen. He lay flat on his back, dark hair wildly tangled, eyes closed, hands stretched above his head like a diver. The restrainers glinted dully in the firelight. Linley sighed. Alan was a good kid -- the best. He'd never in his life met anyone quite like the cadet before. The Terran Space Corps and the Patrol maintained a sort of silent antipathy based on the Patrol's subservience to the aliens. Space corpsmen tended to rub this fact in with more than necessary vigor, and patrolmen tended, quite naturally, to resent it. Alan's opinion was very typical of the service he had been training to enter. Funny that it should make Linley uncomfortable ...

With another sigh, he lay back and closed his eyes. What if his suspicions about the boy were true? Holy hell! If so, Alan's fate would be anything but pleasant.

But probably they weren't, he assured himself. One lucky guess didn't really mean anything. And anyone who saw the Viceregal Patrol coming after him might have run ...

Then why did they want him? Salthvor was certainly going to a lot of trouble over one, insignificant space cadet ...

And how had Alan known his given name was Mark? He didn't recall telling the kid anything of the sort.

Mark squirmed and flopped over on his stomach.

"Damn!" He muttered savagely. "Damn! Damn! Damn!"

**********

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.

"All right, put him down and get out," Alan said. "I'm taking off, so if you don't want to get caught in the energy discharge you'd better run."

The patrolman eased Linley gently to the deck, then took Alan's advice. The airlock clicked shut behind him. Alan went forward to the controls, and a whine of engines began.

"You okay?" Mark gasped.

"I'm fine. Lie still."

A grey haze was dropping over Linley's vision. The sound of engines faded into the distance and he struggled to remain conscious, telling himself that Alan might need him. The cadet had probably never piloted a Patrol lifeboat before ...

He was drifting slowly down a dark, warm stream. Mark struggled weakly upward, but the surface was far, far above him. Hands touched his shoulder, and a voice spoke faintly in the distance, too muffled for him to understand. The sound faded away, and for a long time there was silence.

**********

Mark Linley opened his eyes. He was lying on the deck of the little escape craft, and the craft was in motion. He could hear the soft hum of the engines and feel the vibration of the surface beneath him. One of the thin, emergency blankets was tucked around him, and pillows had been stuffed under his feet. His shoulder throbbed and, turning his head, Linley saw that it was bandaged. His mouth felt dry, his stomach queasy, and his eyes wouldn't quite focus. The cabin tilted unpleasantly as he tried to lever himself up.

A small, muscular arm caught him around the shoulders, and Alan Westover's face was suddenly bending over him. "Lie down, Mark. Don't try to get up."

Linley gave up the attempt. "We made it."

"We made it," Alan confirmed. "Take it easy, Mark. How's the shoulder?"

"Hurts like hell," he croaked.

"Just a minute." Alan got up and Mark saw him reach over, pulling the lifeboat's emergency medical kit from its alcove. As he did so, Linley caught a glimpse of the boy's ankle.

"Holy hell!"

"What?"

"Your foot!"

"Oh." Alan limped across the deck and Linley heard a slight gurgle of water. Then the boy was beside him again, offering him a small tablet.

Mark shook his head. "My stomach don't feel so good."

Alan dug through the kit again and produced a hypodermic. Mark eyed him apprehensively. "Hey, wait a minute ..."

"Hold still." His companion's hand closed on the uninjured shoulder and he felt a tiny, almost painless prick. Alan withdrew the hypodermic and replaced the syringe in the kit. "There, that'll help." He drew the blanket more tightly about his friend. "Sorry to leave you on the deck. I tried to get you to the bunk, but I just couldn't."

"That's okay." Linley glanced at Alan's ankle again and grimaced. "Siddown and put that foot up. How the devil'd you manage to walk on it?"

Alan seated himself on the deck beside Linley. "It's okay. I never even noticed. Thinking of other things, I guess."

"Yeah. Where are we?"

Alan glanced over his shoulder at the pilot's station. "About a third of the way to Shallock. Can you make it to the bunk if I help you?"

"Shallock! How'd you know I was plannin' t'go there?"

"Huh?" Alan looked surprised. "I didn't. I just guessed."

Mark grinned faintly. "You're one helluva good guesser. If we use those talents o' yours right we should do okay. Help me into the pilot's chair. At least that way I can watch the instruments."

Alan looked doubtful, but gave in. Mark collapsed into the padded chair, breathing hard and closed his eyes against the tendency of his surroundings to spin.

"Are you all right?" Alan asked.

Cautiously, Linley opened his eyes. The scene before him remained steady as long as he didn't move his head too suddenly. "Yeah," he said.

Alan pulled the safety webbing across his lap and settled into the copilot's seat. He was silent for a minute, apparently checking the instruments on the control panel. The viewscreen showed the solid, unrelieved black of hyperspace.

"Kid ..." Linley began.

Alan looked at him, smiling a little sheepishly. "Guess I was pretty dumb, wasn't I?"

"Dumb? Hell, no, you ain't dumb. 'Sides, you'd guessed it yourself towards the end, hadn't you?"

"Well," Alan said, slowly, "I guess I had, sort of. After that business in the pit ..." He stopped.

"What business?"

"I shouted for you and you came. But you were too far away to hear."

"You figured that out, huh?"

"It was the only thing that fit." Alan shook his head. "A psychic! It's hard to believe."

"Not for me it ain't," Linley said, feelingly.

"No, I guess not." Alan regarded him soberly. "You knew, didn't you?"

"Well ..." Linley shifted uncomfortably. "I'd sort of guessed, but I had some information you didn't. You ain't the first psychic I've ever met."

"Well, sure, the Jils are psychics, but ..."

"No, I mean Terran psychics. They found the first one on Shallock, about seven or eight years ago. They've been huntin' Terran psychics real hard ever since. I've met a couple before you. They're always little guys ... an' sharp as Shallockian dagger trees. I've never had one get to me like you did, though. I'll bet you're an empath. I can't explain it any other way." He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. "Man, whatta day!"

"I'll say." Alan sounded slightly awestruck.

Linley grinned slightly, not opening his eyes. "Too bad you hadta leave that 'trol alive, though."

"What 'trol?"

"The one with Salthvor. He's gonna tell on, you, you know."

"Oh, sure," Alan said. "But they'd have figured it out anyway when they found the Jil."

"Maybe not. They mighta thought I did it. Probably would have, actually." He opened his eyes and studied his small friend very seriously. "You made history, didja know?"

"You mean by killing the Jil?"

"Yeah, you're the first ever to do that, sure. But you outdrew the so-and-so. Jils are awful fast. I've never heard of any Terran beatin' 'em at anythin' involvin' speed before."

"Oh." Alan sounded surprised. "Neither have I, come to think of it. Oh, well, I've always had real good reflexes. They've gotten me out of trouble a couple of times."

"Yeah," Linley said dryly, recalling the dinosaur. "You're quite a kid, you know?"

Alan flushed bright red. Mark grinned lazily. "Oh, by the way, I've been meanin' to ask you about ol' Parks."

"Who? Oh, him. What about him?"

"I was just wonderin' what happened to your sweet, boyish charm when it came to that jerk. Didn't he fall for it as hard as I did?"

"I didn't like him," Alan said, darkly. "He was having the time of his life, watching me squirm."

"So you threw your plate at him, huh?"

"Not right away," Alan said. "First I discussed his attitude with him. He wasn't very receptive. Then I called him a few names -- nothing bad, really, compared to the things I've heard at the Academy. And I asked him why he was still a second classer ..."

Linley chuckled appreciatively, visualizing the scene. "Trust you to hit him right on his sore spot. Old Willie Parks has been busted more times than I can remember. I've busted him at least twice, m'self, and I've only been a Strike Commander about a year."

"I just guessed," Alan said, grinning slightly. "I didn't really know, but he did seem kind of old to be a second classer."

"He's older'n me," Linley told him.

"I know." Alan looked sober. "I guess it wasn't so smart to get him mad, but I had to try something. Just sitting there, waiting, was worse than getting killed by Parks. I couldn't stand it."

"Yeah," Mark said. "Standard Jil tactic ... givin' the prisoner a waitin' period before an interrogation. They figure it helps break down resistance." He shrugged. "They're usually right, too. Jils understand us Terrans pretty well. I'd've been there sooner, but I had some things to take care of before we left." He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes again. "Any sign o' pursuit, by the way? Didja pick up any o' the Patrol frequencies before you went into hyperspace?"

"I sure did," Alan told him. "Would you believe they were trying to talk me into coming back?" He laughed. "Somebody back there called Subcommander Wolenski is awfully upset at you."

"I'll bet," Linley agreed. "They musta finally got the communications unjammed. Poor old Wolly. Glad I ain't in his shoes."

"I felt kind of sorry for him," Alan said. "He couldn't figure out what was going on at first, and he thought I'd kidnapped you. Then that 'trol I let go showed up screaming something about you deserting, and me blasting the Jil, and the whole galaxy going crazy. Wolenski didn't say anything for a minute; then he started to swear." The boy gave a low whistle. "Man, I didn't know there were that many cusswords!"

Mark's grin broadened. "Wish I'd heard it."

"Me, too. Then they tried to come after us, but something seemed to be wrong with the forward generators. Pretty lucky for us, huh?" He paused. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Strike Commander Linley?"

"Who, me?" Mark asked, innocently.

"I thought so." Alan chuckled softly. "It seemed too much of a coincidence, somehow." He looked sideways at Mark. "I was wondering ..."

"What?"

"Well, why the Jil tried to intercept us with one bodyguard. From everything I've heard about them, not many of them would take a risk like that. He could have sent a couple of dozen 'trols to do the job. Why didn't he?"

"Oh, that," Mark said.

Alan shook his head. "I thought you might have had something to do with it."

Mark shrugged reflexively and winced as his shoulder protested. "Salthvor was a real strong pre-cog. I knew there was a chance he might catch on, so I took out a little insurance. I made a visit to auxiliary control. The Strike Commander has the codes to override all the ship's systems from there. I shut off the in-ship communications and used the intruder control precautions to lock everybody in their cabins. He couldn't call for reinforcements, and even if anyone had heard him, they couldn't get out in time to respond. Simple."

Alan raised an eyebrow at him. "Yeah," he said. "Simple. I guess it wouldn't hold a Jil in, though."

Mark didn't think he needed to answer that one. He shut his eyes and leaned back in the seat. There was a moment's silence, then Alan spoke again. "What do we do now, Mark?"

Linley sighed. "We look for the Terran Underground," he said. "That's why we're headin' for Shallock. They're lookin' for Terran psychics as hard as the Jils are -- but not for the same reason. If we find 'em, maybe they can tell us why my ankle hurts me every time you get scared." He grinned slightly. "I gotta admit it kinda worried me 'til I made the connection."

"Huh?"

"And in the meantime ..." Linley opened his eyes and glanced at Alan. "In the meantime, we're on our own," he said. "It's a big galaxy, and a mighty mean one. We may not survive."

"I know," Alan said, soberly.

Linley fell silent for a moment, then shrugged. "Aw, what the hell! They were the lousiest kinda bosses anyway, and I sure was gettin' tired o' all the bowin' an' scrapin'." He flashed Alan a reassuring grin. "Don't look so worried, li'l pal. To tell the truth, I'm kinda glad to be out of it, an' I ain't sorry about savin' you, that's for damn sure."

"I hope I never give you reason to be," Alan said.

Linley raised a fist. "You try'n thank me again, kiddo, an' I'll beltcha one. Got it?"

"Got it, sir," Alan said.

The End