Pictor Don replayed the scan at its original speed for the two hours prior to the blowup. He and Ren concentrated fully on the unedited replay screen, while Di Irons fretted in the background, unable to comprehend the screen’s symbolism. All of the first hour of the replay and half of the second passed without producing any information of obvious interest. Suddenly Ren gave a cry.
‘Southeast corner—beyond the shadow of the freighter on pad eight—something is moving on the bowls.’
There was no doubt of the fact. Emerging from the radar shadow of the freighter, already well within the wire, two images sped across the bowls toward the doomed ship. The radar responses were weak, well below the computer’s preset threshold. The moving forms gave no clue as to their form or composition.
Pictor Don ran marker blips across the screen to measure the velocity of the moving points. He frowned at the resulting calculation.
‘Slightly up on fifteen kilometers an hour,’ he said in puzzlement. ‘Men running perhaps, but certainly not men carrying two hundred kilos of deadweight.’
‘Perhaps horses?’ asked Di Irons.
Don shook his head. ‘Not enough mass for horses.’
‘Is there much metal present?’ asked Ren.
‘Some, but it’s not very distinct. More like a grid than a solid. Certainly not enough mass to be a vehicle. The computer wouldn’t be able to distinguish between it and the oxide glaze on the bowls themselves.’
‘Then what the devil can have carried them across the field at a speed like that?’
‘Did you ever think of wizardry?’ Di Irons had the faintest smile of mischief around his grizzled mouth.
‘I don’t care for wizardry,’ said Ren. ‘There’s a physical explanation for all this. Dion-daizan’s no more of a wizard than I am.’
In less than three minutes the two dots had moved from the perimeter across the intervening half kilometer to the foot of the threatened Rance ship. Their passage must have been effectively silent—they appeared to make no effort to avoid the lock-watch who would have been aroused by the sound of an approaching vehicle.
‘Were they invisible also?’ asked Di Irons.
When the dots stopped under the radar shadow of the ship, the screen picture became confused by the sheer mass against the returns were being measured. In less than a minute, however, the dots separated themselves and streaked back toward the perimeter fence, moving even faster than before. Soon they were lost behind the shadow of the freighter on pad eight and the scene closed down to an apparent stillness as the time approached the moment of blowup.
‘Well, we still don’t know what got in, but at least we know where,’ said Ren. ‘Let’s go and take a closer look.’
On the southeast perimeter, where the bulk of the freighter on pad eight stood squarely between them and the damaged radar tower. Ren examined the wire. There was little wonder the break had not been detected before. Had he not had a suspicion of what to look for, he would not have found it for himself. The wires had been cut to a level sufficient to admit something not much larger than a man. Every single strand had subsequently been neatly butt-welded to form a virtually invisible repair. Any competent technician could have done it—given the right equipment and the necessary time.
‘But we had guard-dog patrols between the outer fences,’ objected Pictor Don, when the fact was pointed out.
‘Who mans the patrols?’ asked Ren.
‘One of the so-called societies—very reliable.’
‘Perhaps! But for most of the night there was it withdrawal of society services from all matters affecting outworlders. In effect, there was a period when the
Imaiz
could move unopposed on whatever course he chose. He might even have been able to enlist society aid. I’m reasonably certain that if he chose to cut these wires last night, the dogs would have been conveniently elsewhere.’
‘But why should the societies cooperate with him in this way?’ Pictor Don was perplexed.
‘Because,’ said Ren, ‘Dion’s probably the only force standing between Roget as it is—and eventual domination by Rance. I know this. The societies know it and I suspect my Lord Di Irons knows it also. I may be an outworlder, but I’ve heard enough about Rance’s mailed fist in the universe to know that, given a free choice, I would have been out there last night holding that wire open for Dion to enter.’
Ren turned away from the wire and wandered into the scrub edging the surrounding plain. Shortly he came back and addressed Di Irons.
‘Well, Prefect, I’m ready to answer your questions.’
Di Irons compressed his mouth under his beard. The eyes that met Ren’s were full of comprehension, edged with a slight smile.
‘What about that radar record?’ asked the Prefect.
‘What radar record? It must have been destroyed in the blowup.’
‘And the wire?’
‘Could never have been disturbed. Technology on Roget obviously isn’t far enough advanced to permit a gas-shielded electric butt-weld to be made.’
‘And the blowup?’
‘Who knows,’ said Ren, ‘Accidents can always happen on an overarmed man-of-war. I think the point should be made most strongly to the Spaceports Commission. They must be encouraged to take far greater care of ships when operating on foreign soil. Otherwise it might prove inconvenient to have a spaceport so near Anharitte.’
‘And we can positively rule out outside intervention?’
‘I can think of no way in which a man or perhaps two men with neither beast nor vehicle could travel half a kilometer in three minutes with at least two hundred kilos of dead weight. Such an idea smacks of wizardry.’
‘Which we all know doesn’t exist,’ said Di Irons. ‘You know, Tito, I’ve a feeling I’ve misjudged you. You’ve a depth of perception I would not have associated with your mercenary profession. My report will follow the lines of your summary—and you and Pictor Don can sign a testimony to its accuracy. You’ve proven to me that there could have been no outside intervention. But strictly off the record—and since you don’t admit Dion’s a wizard—how do you imagine the thing could have been done?’
Ren nodded and turned out toward the brush.
‘Come over here. Do you see those marks in the dust? What do you suppose made those?’
‘That’s very strange. I don’t think I’ve seen the like of them before. Do you suppose snakes—’
‘I imagine they’re snake tracks,’ said Ren, tongue in cheek. ‘But they bear a strong resemblance to the tracks of a device I saw used on Terra.’
Di Irons straightened as a society runner approached. The had come around the perimeter from the gate to hand him a message form. The fellow’s exertions underscored the urgency with which he had been dispatched. The prefect scanned the paper anxiously and handed it to Pictor Don. Both men seemed tremendously upset.
‘Trouble?’ asked Ren.
The form was passed to him. With mounting disbelief he read the message.
TRANSGALACTIC NEWSFAX (:) RANCE SPOKESMEN HAVE REVEALED THAT IN ORDER TO CONTAIN WIDESPREAD CIVIL DISORDER ON ROGET ESPECIALLY ANHARITTE THEY ARE DISPATCHING THIRTY DISASTER SHIPS IMMEDIATELY (:) ANHARITTE SPACEPORT HAS ALREADY BEEN ATTACKED BY RIOTERS AND A RANCE GOODWILL SHIP DESTROYED (:) THE CIVIL GOVERNMENT IS NOW REPORTED POWERLESS TO COUNTER INSURRECTION (:) FIRST TASK OF RANCE DISASTER TEAMS WILL BE TO ESTABLISH CIVIL ORDER AND TO REMAIN IN CONTROL UNTIL DEMOCRATIC LIBERTY IS REESTABLISHED (:) MESSAGE ENDS (:)
‘Get me an FTL communications link with Free Trade Central,’ said Ren angrily when he had absorbed the shock. ‘I’ll get the director to blow this scheme apart right from the top—at Galactic Federation Headquarters if necessary.’
‘That may not be easy,’ said Pictor Don unhappily. ‘Our FTL link to anywhere is routed through the relay terminal on Rance.’
‘Damn!’ Ren looked across the blasted spaceport where even now the smoke trails persisted over the scene of devastation. The enormity of Rance’s fabrication made his head spin, but his heart was seized with the cold damp of fear.
If Alek Hardun’s murder wagon had been regarded as a goodwill vessel, Ren hated to think what thirty openly operating disaster ships would bring. Despite his increasing respect for the resourceful Dion-daizan he knew that salvation this time depended on the rapid acquisition of an armed spacefleet. Presumably not even the wizard of Anharitte could produce that. Or could he? At the moment Ren knew only from the trackmarks in the dust that the
Imaiz
possessed at least two bicycles.
The sky was beginning to darken with the approach of rain as Ren returned from the spaceport. The sullen brooding clouds fitted his mood. Di Irons had offered him a horse but, still sore from his last encounter with one of these magnificent beasts, Ren had declined. Nor had he accepted Pictor Don’s offer of the loan of a cushion-craft. More than anything Ren wanted to be alone. He needed time to think.
Rance was preparing to put down on Roget some thirty so-called disaster teams, ostensibly to establish order in a situation where factually no assistance was required. But once their ships had landed, Ren had no doubt, a sequence of ‘disasters’ would occur to justify Rance’s continued occupation of the planet. Rance would claim her actions were selfless and humane. Under the propaganda, however, lurked the harsh realities of conquest and exploitation—the real reasons behind the expedition.
The preservation of planetary independence was a fundamental right guaranteed by the charter of the Galactic Federation. A competent spacefleet was maintained to give teeth to the Federation’s resolutions. The problem was therefore one of communication. Only FTL transmitters had the capability of communicating in real time with the Federation before Rance’s occupation became part of history. Because of the interstellar distances involved, Roget’s FTL transmitter, located at the spaceport, was routed through the relay terminal on Rance itself.
It was certainly no accident that Ren’s call to Free Trade Central had been unable to gain a communication channel. The Rance relay had not even bothered to reply. Presumably Rance was already claiming that the communications failure was due to civil disruption on Roget. Nothing could be farther from reality, but Ren, short of the ability to broadcast the truth across the universe, could only fret with frustration and anxiety under the leaden sky of Anharitte.
The ships of Rance would probably appear in Roget’s orbit within two weeks. The ‘disasters’ would follow as an aftermath, rather than as a prelude to their coming. His experience with Alek Hardun had taught Ren what to expect. A silent dusting with mutagens would ensure the warping of the harvests. Virulent plagues would decimate the populations of the cities. Afterward would come the terrors of the persecutions as the ‘saviors’ from Rance sought out the ‘transgressors’ of Roget. Finally another planet would be added to the sad, mute colonies of the trade worlds.
Ren wondered if Director Vestevaal would guess the truth of the situation and whether, having guessed, he could carry his convictions with sufficient force to bring the fleet arm of the Federation into action. Certainly his claims would need substantiation if they were to hold against the barrage of propaganda from Combien and Rance.
With these preoccupations in his mind Ren had reached the Black Rock before the coming of the rain drew his attention to his own predicament. He shrugged, drew up his collar and turned his face skyward, the better to appreciate the refreshing nature of the shower. Suddenly aware of himself, he was intrigued to find that he had walked the major length of the Via Arena without being consciously aware of a step he had taken.
The stalls and boutiques beyond the Arena were mainly dosed. With characteristic logic the
Ahhn
had seen no point in keeping regular trade hours at a time when bad weather rendered customers unlikely. Ren walked between the sheeted hutments and stalls, feeling that the members or such all independent race were unlikely easily to accent domination by Rance. Certainly they deserved a better fate. He wished it were within his power to secure it for them.
Where the route to Magda Crossing met the Trade Road he stopped, looking toward the dark mass of Thirdhill. He wondered if Dion-daizan had become aware of Rance’s action and what, if anything, the wizard could do about it. Slightly beyond his line of sight the dark castle nestled somewhere on the hill, guarding a range of secrets that appeared to cover a broader spectrum with their every exercise. Was it impossible, Ren asked himself, that the
Imaiz
had an answer even to this problem? The idea did not carry a great deal of conviction. The
Imaiz
was a minor lord of a minor province on a relatively undeveloped world. He would need to be a mighty wizard indeed to take on the armed might of Rance.
Nevertheless the faint hope persisted. It took Ren away from his own route and down to the water’s edge. The rain, now drifting in sheets, lost him the stretch of Firstwater in a cloud of drizzle. At Magda Crossing no ferries were available. The fragile slimboats had been drawn up under cover and the ferrymen had gone. Typical
Ahhn
logic dictated that nobody but a fool or a felon would be traveling in weather such as this. Ren searched the bank for a quarter of an hour but could not find anybody to take him across and he could not have handled a slimboat by himself against the tide.
Finally the rain began to penetrate his clothing and hang cold around his neck and shoulders. Fearing a chill in this land of inadequate medicine, Ren retraced his steps away from the river and climbed the slopes of the Trade Road. When he finally reached his office chambers he was soaked to the skin, thoroughly exhausted and depressed. Such was his condition that his servants were alarmed and insisted that he bathe immediately, then retire to bed.
He was halfway to acceding to their wishes when a thought struck him. His office computing terminal had not been used since the discovery of the line tap. The line had been disconnected at the spaceport in order to deny Dion-daizan unauthorized access to the computer data banks, but Ren could not recollect whether the tap itself had been broken. Experimentally he took the cover from the keyboard and sat before the instrument. As he keyed his call sign the board responded with a ready acknowledgment.