As the men marched by, Geek slaves prostrated themselves. They were lean, ribby, deep-eyed creatures, with vestigial scales across high shoulders, long, finger-toed feet, and draggled manes of lank hair along their prominent spines. They wore only loin cloths in spite of the chill, and some of them trembled violently as Roan looked at them, from cold, or fear.
The small Terran officer trotted ahead, disappeared through high doors with a sign for Roan to wait. His men clustered close behind him, drawn together and suddenly alert, almost disciplined.
"We could jump 'em now," Askor growled. "I get jumpy just waiting."
"There is a certain pleasure in the experience of mortal suspense," Poion said. "In such moments the current of life runs deep and swift."
"You'll actually enjoy dying, you poetic bastard," Askor grunted. Roan hissed at his men as they began to mutter. Waiting came hard to them. But there was no need to worry about them. They could smell danger at half a parsec—and it was an odor they were fond of . . . Roan's guide reappeared and beckoned to him.
"Wait here," Roan said to his men, "and don't shoot anybody before I get back!" He followed through the bossed, agate-studded door into a shadowed, high-vaulted room in which ancient magnificence hung like rotted velvet drapes. A spider-lean, white-haired man in a rank-encrusted uniform rose from behind a desk like a beached freighter, offered a bony hand. Roan took it, and felt the stitching along the fingers where the webbing had been removed. He had a wide mouth and a strange, small chin; his ears were odd, and at close range Roan could see that they were edged with pink scar tissue.
"I am Commodore Quex," the man said in a soft, almost feminine voice. He was slight, delicately boned, but the cruelty in the slits of his too widely set eyes was that of a wolf, not of the cat.
Behind Roan, the Terran saluted and went out and the door closed behind him.
"I'm Roan Cornay," Roan said. "Lieutenant Cornay," he added.
"Ah, yes. From Carolis. What a pleasure to welcome you, ah, Lieutenant." A finger like a parchment-wrapped bone brushed at a red-edged eye. At close range, Roan could see a whitish crust at the corners of the puckered mouth. An unpleasant odor hung about the Man. He settled back into his chair, snapped his fingers. Something moved in the shadows, and Roan saw that it was a slave, face down on the thick, moldy carpet. It rose and scuttled to swing a heavy chair around for Roan to sit in.
The commodore glanced at a paper before him, then looked at Roan, his hand hovering near his eye. "Your ship, ah, Navy 39643-G4. Our records . .
."
"I captured her. After Warlock was lost."
"Ah, yes. So you said. Hmmm. Warlock was a valuable vessel. I don't believe your reports made it clear precisely how she was lost . . . ?"
"In action—" Roan paused, thinking of what he had been about to say about the Niss ship, and deciding quite suddenly not to say it. He let the sentence hang.
Quex was looking thoughtful. "Surprising. . .and fortunate that you were able to obtain a replacement. And you say Captain Dread was lost as well?" The old voice was a purr. Roan felt tension creep along the back of his neck. He shifted in his chair so as to keep the door in view. "That's right," he said.
"And before his, ah, death, he tendered you your appointment?" The red eye peered past the finger at Roan.
"That's right."
"Ummm. And how did you happen to enter into your, ah, association with Dread?"
"He took me from a ship he captured."
Quex sucked in his dry lips. "Another naval unit?" he asked sharply.
"No; it was a traveling show. I was one of the Freaks—I—"
"You were a captive of non-humans?" Quex was digging at his ear now, angrily.
"Not really. I was, at first, but—"
Quex leaned forward. "You lived among them willingly?" There was an edge on his voice like a meat saw.
"They treated me well enough; I had good quarters and plenty of food—"
"Beware of Geeks bearing gifts," Quex said flatly. He leaned back, his thin fingers on the edge of the table.
"And what is your ancestry, Cornay? If you don't mind my asking." His voice indicated that he didn't care whether Roan minded or not.
Roan opened his mouth to say that he was genuine Terrestrial strain, but he heard himself saying, "I'm not sure. I was adopted. My folks didn't talk about it much."
"Mmmm. To be sure," Quex murmured meaninglessly. He poked at the papers on his desk.
"I want to get back in space as soon as possible," Roan said. "Who do I see about a new ship, and provisioning?"
Quex's mouth was open, showing inflamed gums and the tip of a white tongue.
"Provisioning? For what?"
"For my next cruise; my new assignment."
"Ah, of course." Quex showed the false face again. His finger was back at his eye. "But we can discuss these details later. I've laid on a dinner in your honor tonight. You'll want to prepare. Real Terran fare again, eh?"
"I take it most of the fleet it out on space duty now?" Roan said.
"Why do you say that?" Quex shot Roan a darting look.
"I only saw half a dozen ships at the port. Some of them seemed to be half dismantled. How big a force does Alpha command?"
Quex lifted the paper from his desk and dropped it again. "Ah, an extensive force, Cornay. Quite extensive. Rather extensive . . ."
"You have other bases here on-world?"
"Oh, ah, assuredly, Lieutenant. Why," Quex waved a hand toward the draped window, "you didn't imagine these few rusting hulks were our entire fleet?" He curved his puckered lips in a smile that crinkled the cruelty lines around his eyes. "Most amusing. Most. But . . ." He rose. "I suggest we allow these matters to wait until after our celebration of your happy return—"
Roan stood. "Certainly, sir. But I'd like to ask when the counterattack is planned. I want to know how to set up my cruise—"
"Counterattack?" Quex gaped.
"The massive offensive in force against the Niss. How many of them are there? Where have they set up their headquarters? What—" The commodore held up two quivering hands. "Cornay, need I remind you that all this is highly classified?" He shot a look at the nearest slave, crouched against the floor.
"Oh." Roan glanced at the slave. "I didn't think . . ." Quex rounded the desk. "Not that we have any trouble with our slaves. They know their place, don't they, old one?" He kicked the slave hard in the ribs; it grunted and glanced up with an almost human smile, then stared at the floor again.
"Still, I shall have to dispose of this fellow now. Pity in a way. He's been with me for twenty years and is well trained. But getting old. Ah, well . . ." Quex took Roan's elbow, guided him toward the door. "Until tonight, then?"
"What about my crew?"
"Your crew. Of course. Do bring them along. Yes. Capital idea. Your entire crew, mind you. How many did you say there were?"
"Just the four of us," Roan said.
"At second moonrise then, Cornay. Don't be late."
"We'll be there," Roan said.
Vast grins broke across battered faces as Roan rejoined his crew.
"Glad to see you, Boss," Askor said. "We was about to come in after you."
"Relax. I'll call the plays," Roan said.
A small, neat Terry with an elegant walk flicked ashes from a dope stick, came toward Roan and his men. The guard officer came to attention.
"That will do, Putertek," the newcomer said gently. He looked Roan over, smiling faintly, glanced at the others.
"But, sir. . ." the guard protested.
"And your watchdogs, too," the dandy said. He was carefully dressed in immaculate blue polyon with silver-corded shoulder boards bearing the winged insignia of a captain. His blond, rigidly waved hair shone with oil and he touched it with polished fingernails. His perfume reminded Roan distantly of Stellaraire.
"My name is Trishinist," he said with a small flourish of one manicured hand. "Sorry about the reception. These commissioned peasants—no finesse. Perhaps you'd like a bite to eat and then we can have a little chat?"
"My men are hungry, too," Roan said. "They never seem to get invited anywhere."
"The enlisted men's mess is . . ."
"They're officers."
"My apologies. Of course." Captain Trishinist led the way along a side corridor, chatting easily about the weather, the servant problem, the inadequacies of the mess cuisine.
The dining room was quiet with deep rugs and moss green drapes and immense, intricate chandeliers. Waiters sprang forward to draw out chairs at a long, white-linen table.
Askor and Sidis sat down awkwardly, then relaxed and grinned at each other.
Trishinist murmured an order to a servitor, waited and turned contentedly to the table as the waiter brought a loaded tray.
"Champagne and honeydew," Trishinist said as Roan's men eyed the frosted bottle and the breakable-looking glasses. "I hope you find it adequate." Askor reached half a melon from the tray as the waiter passed, took a vast bite.
"Hey," he said, chewing juicily, "pretty good. But the skin's kinda tough."
"Wipe your chin," Roan said.
Askor used his sleeve. "Sorry," he muttered. Sidis had plucked the bottle from the tray and rapped it on the edge of the table to knock the top off. He jumped to his feet as the wine foamed out.
"Uh-oh," he said. "This one's went to the bad." A waiter rescued the bottle with an impassive face, mopped up the wine. Poion took the bottle, sniffed it, then took a swig from the broken neck.
"An interesting drink," he said. "Effervescent, like the human mind. And worth a brief sonnet."
"What's the matter with you?" Roan snapped. "Offer the captain a drink." Poion blushed and pushed the bottle along to Trishinist, who waved it away with a smile.
Roan picked up his melon and took a bite. "Good," he said around a mouthful of melon.
Trishinist's hand hovered over a spoon. Then he picked up his melon with delicate fingertips and nibbled its edge. "So glad you enjoy it," he said. Waiters cleared away the last of the dishes and filled glasses with mysterious-smelling brandy. Sidis slapped his belly and belched.
"A great feed," he said.
Askor plied a fingernail on a back tooth. "First real Terry chow I ever had," he commented. "Unless you want to count—"
"Thank you, Captain," Roan cut him off hurriedly. "It was a good breakfast." Trishinist offered dope sticks all around and lit up as the waiters cleared the last of the dishes.
"Now, about Rage of Heaven," Trishinist said. "You say you found her abandoned. May I ask how it happened that you were cruising in this area?"
"We heard there were inhabited worlds in this area," Roan said carefully.
"My ship was blasted by a time mine and we were drifting when we spotted the cruiser."
"You knew this was ITN controlled space?"
"Yes." Roan was watching Trishinist's face carefully. He wished Poion could tell him what Trishinist was feeling. It would help.
"And you encountered the derelict—where?"
Roan repeated the coordinates of the imaginary rendezvous beyond fourth Centaurus.
Trishinist glanced around; the doors were closed now and the waiters gone. He leaned across the table and his languid expression was gone. So were thousands of years of culture. It was as though suddenly all the waves went out of his hair.
"You're early," he hissed. "Four months ahead of schedule." Roan sat perfectly still, holding the interested smile in place.
"As it happens, we're ready here," Trishinist went on, licking his lips. "But I dislike Blan's imprecision. If we're going to be working together—"
"Hey, Chief," Sidis began.
"Hush," Poion murmured.
Trishinist squinted at the three crewmen and took out his pistol from its holster. "What about these?" he asked Roan.
"They do what I say," Roan said.
Poion smiled. "It is true," he said.
Trishinist frowned. "I had expected rather more . . . ah . . . representative individuals."
"They're as representative as I need them to be," Roan said.
"You have your identification?"
Roan reached inside his tunic, brought out an ITN identification disk on a chain, handed it across. Trishinist looked at it carefully.
"Endor," he murmured. "Blan's never mentioned your name to me, Captain."
"No doubt," Roan said.
"Blan is proposing no changes in the scheme at this date, I trust?" Trishinist said sharply. "I've fulfilled my part of the arrangement. I assume he's done as well."
"You see me here," Roan said.
"Where are his squadrons now?"
"They're in position," Roan improvised.
"Is he prepared to move at once?"
Roan frowned. "That depends on you," he said.
"On me!"
"Of course. We're early. You say you're ready, Captain. Just what do you mean by that? In detail."
Trishinist's jaw muscles were tensed up. "I told you, I've complied with our agreement in every respect."
"I can't work with you if you refuse to tell me anything. I want to know just how ready you are."
Trishinist relaxed his jaw muscles with a visible effort. "The organization among the rank and file is now over the eighty per cent figure. Sixty-four of the ninety-eight senior officers are aligned with us. Over ninety per cent of the junior corps. Our men control communications and three of the five major supply depots . . ."
Roan listened, taking occasional sips from his glass. Askor and Sidis sat, mouths slightly open, listening. Poion was smiling behind his hand. But Roan didn't kick him because it took some practice before a stranger could tell Poion was smiling.
"The units on maneuvers are, of course, those including high concentrations of unreliables," Trishinist concluded. "The base garrison has been carefully selected over the past three years and can be counted on absolutely. Now, what of your group?"
"We're ready," Roan said.
"At full strength?"
"I have triple the number of volunteers I expected."
"Excellent!" Trishinist pursed his lips. "How soon can you be in jump-off position?"