"There'll be someone outside to meet you," the guard said brusquely. "There usually is;

they can tell the difference between an incoming prison ship and a regular supply ship."

 

The guard was not in a talkative mood. She shoved her two prisoners roughly through the

door and slammed it shut behind them. The door closed with a solid bang of finality and

the agents could hear a hissing as it sealed itself tight. There was no knob or button to

open it from this side. Unless they wanted to stay here for the rest of their lives, they

would have to move forward.

 

They were in a bare, iron corridor fifteen meters long. Lighting panels overhead gave but

feeble illumination. At the far end was another door. That was their only alternative. Jules

shrugged. "No point in staying here," he said. and led his wife to the door at the other

end.

 

The corridor itself was chilly, but they were unprepared for the shock of freezing air that

blasted them as they opened the far door. They closed their eyes and covered their

faces with their hands to protect them from the stinging cold of Gastonia's weather. They

realized that the fur parkas, which they had thought were quite warm inside the garrison,

would be scant protection here on this frozen planet.

 

After a few seconds of adjustment, they moved out through the doorway, and the door

closed automatically behind them. There was no way to open it from this side; they were

now irrevocably committed to life on Gastonia and all that implied. "I hope we know what

we're doing," Yvonne muttered under her breath; Jules beside her nodded imperceptibly.

Self-doubt could hardly be avoided under these circumstances, but at the same time they

knew that they had risked their very lives before on longer gambles and come out

successfully, No one, after all, had promised them a job without hazards.

 

Behind them, the blank iron wall rose ten meters high, towering well above their heads.

The administrative garrison had been built with its back to a series of mountains to

forestall attacks from the rear. The high wall prevented attacks from the front. As far as

the official records went, there had never been a successful escape from Gastonia in its

more than one hundred and fifty year history as a prison world. Yet somehow a woman

named Karla Jost had managed it without anyone's knowing and how many others as

well? That was what the d'Alemberts were here to find out-and to stop, by any means

whatsoever.

 

"If you want a ride to the village," said a sour voice, "you'd better move along. I ain't got

all day."

 

The d'Alemberts turned from their perusal of the garrison behind them to study the man

who had spoken. He was an older man, possibly in his middle to late forties, with a bushy

beard and a craggy, weather-lined face. He was dressed in a fur parka similar to their

own, but his boots were fur-lined and wrapped tightly about shins and ankles. He stood

beside a handmade sleigh that was harnessed to a large, powerful quadruped. The

animal was covered by a thick coat of shaggy gray fur and sported two pairs of

wicked-looking horns, but otherwise appeared quite placid as it stood hitched to the

sleigh awaiting its master's orders.

 

"Who are you?" Vonnie asked.

 

"Name's Zolotin. I drive new arrivals to the village-unless you prefer to walk."

 

"How far is it?" Jules asked.

 

"Five kilometers. Make up your minds quick."

 

There was really little decision involved. Walking that distance on Gastonia when they

were unaccustomed to the severe climate would have been almost suicidal. "We'll ride,

thank you," Jules said, starting toward the back of the sleigh.

 

Zolotin moved to interpose his body between Jules and the sleigh. "Fare's fifteen slugs

apiece."

 

"Huh? Oh." Jules looked down at the coins he'd been holding since the guard gave them

to him. All were of brass, of different sizes and shapes, but without any markings to

distinguish the denominations. "Which of these is what?" Jules asked the man.

 

Zolotin looked disdainfully at the collection in Jules's hand. "The small round ones is one,

medium round ones is five, large round ones is ten, triangles is fifty, squares is a

hundred. Hexagonals is a thousand, but you won't be seeing many of them for a while."

He chuckled at his private little joke.

 

The d'Alemberts took a quick stock of their "wealth," and computed that they had nine

hundred slugs between them. They

 

had no idea what prices were like in the village, but thirty slugs did not seem an

outrageous fee for "cab fare." Carefully they parceled out the indicated coins and paid

Zolotin what he demanded. Only then did the man let them climb in the back of his sleigh

and, with a crack of his small whip, he drove his animal forward.

 

"What kind of an animal is that?" Vonnie asked, hoping to start a conversation.

 

"It's called a yagi."

 

The yagi was plodding at a pace somewhat faster than Yvonne could have crawled.

"Doesn't it move any faster than this?"

 

"Maybe if there was a fire behind it or a female yagi in front. Why`? You in some kind of

a hurry''"

 

Yvonne blushed. She was used to fast-paced environments; Gastonia was obviously a

place where people conserved as much of their energy as possible just to keep warm.

What reason could there be for hurrying around'? No one was really going anywhere.

 

Seeing his wife's embarrassment, Jules stepped into the conversational gap. "I imagine

there must be some kind of rules for living here."

 

"Sure," Zolotin said. "You do what the mayor tells you and you don't make no trouble.

Most of all, you never ask anybody what their life was like before they came here. If you

do those things, you'll probably live a while."

 

"Who is the mayor?" Jules asked. "One of the Governor's men?"

 

Zolotin gave a derisive snort. "The Governor don't have much to do with us, or us with

him. Right now the mayor is a man named Kwame Tshombase. The farther you stay

from him, the longer you'll live."

 

Perhaps that formula explained Zolotin's longevity in a world of cutthroat politics, which

was the state of things on Gastonia if Jules read his remarks correctly. The d'Alemberts

were not here to play things safe, however; if this Tshombase were in any position of

power, he would probably be involved in the conspiracy they'd come to investigate. They

would be tangling with the man sooner or later-but first it was wisest to learn the ground

rules of this new world they were forced to inhabit.

 

"Where do we find a place to stay?" Vonnie asked. "The guards didn't tell us much at all."

 

"I'll take you to the Central Registry," Zolotin said. "They'll assign you quarters and a job.

You both together?"

 

"We're married, yes."

 

Zolotin gave Vonnie a knowing leer. "A young, good-looking woman can earn big money

fast. Sex ratio here's better than three-to-two male."

 

"I'm not that desperate, thank you!" Vonnie exclaimed. The driver shrugged. "Suit

yourself. But your value is higher now than it will be later. Hard work on Gastonia lowers

your desirability and your price. In a couple of months, maybe nobody'll want you."

 

Yvonne spent the remainder of the ride in angry silence, leaving the rest of the

interrogation to her husband. Zolotin was an infuriatingly taciturn man, seldom

volunteering any information; Jules practically had to use a crowbar to pry loose any

useful data. The yagi's slow pace, though, gave him plenty of time to ask questions and

build up a picture of the society in which they would be living.

 

There were more than twenty thousand people living in "the village," as the local

settlement was called. Most people worked at menial jobs-hunting wild animals, growing

crops, working at crafts, tanning hides and constructing buildings being the chief

occupations. The village was ruled by a mayor and his lieutenants, who achieved their

positions of power by sheer brute force. The job of mayor was subject to change without

notice. This was, after all, a planet populated by ambitious, scheming, violent people;

little wonder the political situation was so volatile.

 

After a ride of almost an hour over a "road" that was merely an accumulation of tracks in

the snow, the sleigh topped a hill and the d'Alemberts had their first glimpse of the

village. It was much larger than they had expected. The Empire provided the inhabitants

with some prefabricated dwellings, a basic minimum for survival, but the people

themselves had enlarged on that by using native trees as timber and adding

constructions of their own. Houses were laid out in irregular streets that wound narrowly

up and around a group of low hills. Larger buildings, Zolotin told them, were bars,

barracks, storehouses, and homes of the more affluent citizens-that is, the mayor and his

gang.

 

Zolotin dropped them off in front of the Central Registry, where they would be required to

check in and arrange for their future jobs and housing. The driver then rode off without a

word of farewell, and they made no effort to thank him-he, had made no move of

friendship or courtesy, and they felt required to give none in return. He had taught them

the first lesson of Gastonia: don't get involved with other people.

 

The d'Alemberts entered the Registry, and found the indoors scarcely warmer than the

frigid climate outside. They were greeted by a sour-faced bearded man behind the

counter who regarded them as an intrusion on his privacy. After taking their names, he

informed them brusquely that they could have a but of their own for four hundred slugs a

month or they could live in the barracks for a hundred slugs apiece. Since they needed

some privacy to talk out their ideas together, they opted for the hut.

 

"Cash in advance," the clerk said. Jules counted out four hundred slugs from their

assembled change and handed it across the counter. "Not enough," the clerk said,

looking at it with slight disdain.

 

"What do you mean?" Jules counted it again, aloud. "There's one hundred, two hundred,

two-fifty, three, three-fifty, four hundred."

 

For the first time, the clerk smiled. "Zolotin taught you that, didn't he?"

 

Jules was starting to get a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Yes, why?"

 

"He does that to all the warmies," the clerk said, working hard now to suppress his

laughter. "He taught you wrong probably took about 150 slugs from you, if I know him."

The clerk showed them the right way to figure the change, and he was right-Zolotin had

taken 150 slugs apiece. Figured the new way, each of them had started with only

350-and now they had only enough money to pay their first month's rent in advance.

 

Zolotin had also taught them the second lesson of Gastonia: never trust anybody.

 

"What'll we do about food until we get our first pay?" Vonnie asked.

 

"You can apply for a loan," the clerk said, slipping back to his previous sour expression

now that the joke was over. "Interest rate is twenty percent, compounded daily."

 

"I see," Jules said, and he did. They were rapidly learning the third lesson of Gastonia:

money is everything. "We'll both need jobs, though, before we could pay back the loan.

What have you got available?"

 

The clerk looked Jules up and down. "Have you ever done much hunting?"

 

Jules remembered his last hunting trip. It was on Ansegria, as part of Princess Edna's

Progress-quite a different situation from the present one. "Yes," he said. "I'm pretty

good."

 

The clerk sneered. "With a spear?"

 

Jules refused to be daunted. "I've never tried it that way, but I'll bet I'd still be smooth."

 

"Let's try you and see." The clerk led Jules out back to a yard where the outline of a

small quadrupedal animal had been crudely chalked on a wall. The two men stood twenty

meters away and the clerk handed Jules a long spear. The shaft was of a lightweight

wood, the point of chipped stone held onto the haft by leather thongs. Jules suddenly

realized how primitive the conditions on Gastonia were.

 

He hefted the weapon for a few seconds, allowing himself to become accustomed-to its

weight and balance, then suddenly hurled it-with the strength of a DesPlainian and the

accuracy of a skilled aerialist-directly toward the target. The stone tip, dulled from

repeated usage, did not stick in the target-but it did hit close to dead center before

bouncing off. Jules looked at the clerk. "Khorosho, how's that?"

 

If the man was impressed by the newcomer's ability, he managed not to show it. "Head

shots are best," was all he said. "Gut shots can spoil the meat."

 

"Sorry. Let me try again." Jules's second attempt did hit the target's head, though was

not as well-placed as he would have liked. He knew his cousin Jean, the Circus's knife

thrower, would have been able to split the creature's eye five times out of five.

 

His performance, though, was good enough to convince the clerk that he could handle a

hunter's job, and the man assigned him to the lowest-grade hunting position with a team

scheduled to go out on a two-day hunt the next morning. Apparently good hunters were

hard to find; even the lowest position as a hunter paid better than other professions-and

since pay was based in part on how much he caught, Jules stood a chance to make

good money indeed.

 

Vonnie would have liked to get a hunting job, too; it sounded much more interesting than

any of the work available in town. But she knew that she and Jules should cover as wide

a cross section of Gastonian society as possible in order to find out what they needed to

know, so she ended up taking a menial job in one of the village's tanneries. Their

combined salaries would be small, but they calculated that it would at least be enough to

pay for their food and rent, with a little left over to repay the loan quickly, before it

mounted out of all proportion. They straightened out all the financial arrangements and

the clerk directed them to their new home.

 

After half an hour of wandering through the narrow, twisting streets they finally located

the but that was theirs. It turned out to be a prefabricated, one-room hovel, crude and

lacking anything in the way of furniture. The "bed" was a pile of moldy furs thrown in one

corner of the floor; all cooking would have to be done in the fireplace-but they had no

kettle, no pots, no implements and no firewood. All would have to be purchased out of

the small and dwindling supply of money they had borrowed-money they had thought

would be needed only for food. As for personal hygiene, it soon became clear that they

would have to share the communal lavatory facilities with their other neighbors along this

street.

 

A lesser pair might have broken into tears at the turn their fortunes had taken. Instead,

the d'Alemberts merely stood for several silent minutes in the center of their hut, gazing

around themselves at the sorry conditions they would have to endure.

 

"Cherie," Jules said at last, "if I ever decide to commit treason for real, do me a

favor-talk me out of it."

 

Chapter 6

The Gastonian Way

 

They found a food stall that was open and bought a few staples to see themselves

through the night. They were learning to survive on Gastonia, though; they dickered over

the price instead of merely paying what the seller asked, saving themselves more than

half of the initial demand. They also had to buy firewood, since Jules had no axe with

which to chop his own; he did find a couple of long sticks, though, on which they could

roast their vegetables over the fire. It was not a connoisseur's meal, but they were both

too ravenously hungry to care. The strain of this first day on Gastonia had taken its toll

on even their superhuman bodies, and they went to bed immediately after dinner, making

no attempt to explore the village further. It was cold inside their but despite the fire, and

they huddled together under the furs for warmth; that part, at least, was far from

objectionable.

 

Jules was up at dawn the next morning to report for work with his hunting team. There

would be half a dozen other men on this particular expedition, all under the supervision of

their group leader, a man named Dusabi. All the others had been on many hunts before

and knew each other well-although it was clear from some of the interchanges that they

didn't all like one another. Jules braced himself for the inevitable kidding he would take; a

new man on a tough job was usually the butt of practical jokes, delivered in a spirit that

could sometimes be cruel. Jules, as the warmest of all possible "warmies," was fair

game.

 

Each man was given his own spear, with a different number of notches on the haft for

identification; that way, they could tell which man had been responsible for which kill, and

judge his pay accordingly. Then the group started out on foot away from the village and

into the forest beyond. Some of the men sang as they marched, others chose not to.

 

Jules struck up a conversation with one man, a fellow named Bagheddes. Though the

other man was reluctant to talk much with this brash newcomer, Jules did manage to pry

some useful information out of him. This was a small hunting party, as such things went;

that was because they would be staying near the village and hunting only small

game-wolflike animals called sleekars that traveled in packs. It was not uncommon for

some of the hunting parties to take as many as thirty men and be gone from the village

for a week or more. The larger groups hunted bigger game, and usually took a sleigh

and yagi with them to bring back their catch. The bigger parties were considered the

choice assignments; pay and working conditions were much better there than in a small

group like this. The men in this particular party either were not very good hunters or else

were out of favor with the mayor and his gang.

 

They reached the forest after a two-hour walk, and spread out for the hunt. Group leader

Dusabi stayed close by Jules, explaining the procedures of the hunt. The sleekars were

animals about the size of large dogs with shaggy gray-brown fur, flat muzzles and sharp,

rending claws. They traveled mostly in packs through the trees and were slightly out of

their element on the ground-although with their sharp claws they could be fierce

opponents if cornered. They had been known to drop out of trees and attack humans,

though such attacks were rare; their usual prey was the small tree-dwelling rodents that

lived all through the forest.

 

They'd been hunting for more than an hour without success before a cry from one of their

fellow hunters drew their attention off to the right. Dusabi broke into a run in that

direction, and Jules was right at his heels. Even before they reached the man who'd

made the sighting, they spotted the pack of sleekars rushing through the treetops

straight toward them. Jules was frankly astounded at how fast such large creatures

could bound from branch to branch; the herd was almost upon him before he could stop

and take hold of his spear, preparing to throw.

 

Beside him, Dusabi planted his feet, took careful aim and hurled his stone-tipped spear

at his chosen target. The missile lodged cleanly in the beast's neck, and was thrown with

such force that its tip went cleanly through the tissue and came out on the other side.

The sleekar gave a brief scream that was abruptly cut off in a gurgle, and fell from its

branch to land on the ground a few meters away from the men.

 

Jules's throw was no less accurate. As he was taking aim his quarry seemed to sense

his intention. It turned suddenly and snarled at him, baring a mouthful of vicious fangs and

leaping down directly toward him. Jules hurled his spear instinctively with all his

DesPlainian strength-and the missile went straight into the beast's gaping mouth and

completely through the back of the throat. The sleekar fell dead at his feet, while his

spear lodged into a tree branch high above.

 

The pack continued its panicked stampede through the branches overhead, and within

less than two minutes the entire confrontation between hunters and sleekars was over.

Jules, after checking that the treetops were now safe once again, climbed up into the

tree to retrieve his spear while Dusabi took count of this particular hunt. As Jules was

climbing down again, the group leader announced the results. "Four kills: one for Ashai,

one for Jeddman and two for me."

 

Jules stared at him, unbelieving. "You only killed one. That other one is mine."

 

"Your spear stuck in the tree," Dusabi said calmly. "You just finished getting it out."

 

"Sure it stuck in the tree-after it went clean through the throat. You were right beside me.

You saw me kill it." "Did I.?"

 

Jules d'Alembert was normally a man of very even temper. An agent of his caliber could

seldom afford to let his emotions control his actions because his life depended on every

move be made. But he had suffered nothing but humiliation at the hands of these scum

for the past two days, and he was tired of being pushed around. If the law of the jungle

was all that applied here, he'd show these people he could roar with the loudest. It was

time he earned a little respect.

 

Taking his spear, he walked over to where Dusabi was standing next to Jules's kill and,

with full DesPlainian strength, jammed his spear through the dead sleekar's head. In the

forest silence, the crunching of the skull carried to the ears of each hunter; brains and

blood splattered on the ground and across the top of Jules's boots. Jules ignored that.

He let go of the spear and it stood upright, while he focused his entire attention on

Dusabi.

 

"My spear is in it now," Jules said in a cold fury, enunciating each syllable. "I claim the

kill."

 

The other men in the party gathered in a circle around Jules and Dusabi as the duel of

wills flared. For an instant it seemed the very air between the two would ionize from the

charge of personality flowing back and forth. Finally, without taking his eyes from Jules's

face, Dusabi took a step away. "Four kills," he repeated in an even tone. "One for Ashai,

one for Jeddman, one for Brecht and one for me."

 

From that point onward, Jules was accepted as art equal in the party. People didn't

necessarily like him any better-no one seemed very friendly to anyone else on

Gastonia-but he was at least treated with the respect they gave someone who could

hold his own in their company.

 

The four dead sleekars were lashed together with leather thongs and hung from a tree

branch, to be gathered up tomorrow on their way back to the village. Dusabi sprinkled a

greenish powder over the bodies, and at Jules's inquiry explained that it was a peppery

substance that kept the local scavengers from becoming too interested in the hunters'

catch.

 

They left that location well-marked and traveled onward. As Jules surmised, they would

have to travel quite a distance before they could hope to find another pack of sleekars;

such large carnivores needed a wide hunting area themselves to support their numbers,

and the territories of various packs would not overlap. They stopped for a short midday

meal; Jules had not known to bring his own food, but managed to get small portions from

each of his colleagues with a promise to pay them back at the end of the hunt.

 

There was one more hunt later that day, and Jules again bagged a sleekar, one of the

five killed in this encounter. He heard assorted mumblings of "beginner's luck," but paid

them no attention. A worse problem to the group was a loud argument between

Bagheddes and another man, Pajjar, over which of them had actually killed a given

sleekar. By the time Dusabi and the rest of the men arrived at the scene, both hunters'

spears were lodged in the carcass and each man was accusing the other of trying to

steal credit for his kill. Dusabi examined the evidence and awarded the kill to Bagheddes,

saying that Bagheddes's spear looked to be in the beast at a more believable angle, and

that Pajjar's spear could have been stuck in afterward. This decision stopped the

argument but did little to quell the animosity that raged between the two men. For the

rest of the day there was a barrage of verbal sniping back and forth. Some of the men

took sides in the dispute, others chose to remain completely neutral; discretion prompted

Jules toward the latter path.

 

They camped that night in a small clearing and gathered branches for a fire. Dusabi

assured Jules that there were nocturnal carnivores larger and more dangerous than the

sleekars roaming the forest, and that a guard would be maintained at all times. As low

man on the totem pole, Jules drew first watch, and accepted the responsibility silently.

Several times during his turn he was startled by some loud, mysterious noises in the

darkness nearby, but nothing came close enough to the circle of light to be identifiable.

When Jules was relieved he was so worn out that he fell into a deep sleep until

awakened at dawn for the next day's activities.

 

All morning they searched unsuccessfully for signs of more sleekar packs. Their lack of

success, coupled with the continuing insult battle between Bagheddes and Pajjar, served

to make the entire party edgy. Finally in midafternoon, just as Dusabi was ready to give

the order to turn back and collect the previous day's catch, they found signs of sleekar

activity in the area. They spread out once more in a hunting pattern, and this time Jules

was confident enough to go off on his own.

 

When the stampede was launched and the hunt began, Jules downed another of the

beasts with comparative ease. Hoisting the carcass over his shoulders, he started

hauling it back toward the central rendezvous area when he heard a very human scream

to his left. Without dropping his catch, he ran in that direction to see what was the

matter.

 

He came upon a sight that brought him to a stop. Pajjar was bending over Bagheddes's

lifeless body, his spear through his enemy's chest. He was stripping the clothing off the

corpse, having already pawed through the dead man's knapsack. Jules let his sleekar fall

to the ground as he leaped through the air to tackle the murderer and wrestle him to the

ground. At the same time, he called out to the other hunters for help-but it wasn't

needed. One punch was all it took to knock Pajjar unconscious.

 

Dusabi and the other men were on the scene within seconds, and the group leader could

tell at a glance what had happened. He helped Jules off Pajjar's body and told him, "Tend

to your own catch. I'll handle this."

 

He personally began stripping the body of all its valuables, including a small stone knife

and a leather coin purse attached to the belt by a thong. Pajjar was just starting to come

to as he finished; Dusabi bundled the plunder together and tossed it roughly at the

murderer. "Here's the stuff," he growled, "and you'll get half-credit for that kill yesterday.

But I don't ever want you in a group of mine again, understand?"

 

Jules could hardly believe what he heard. Gastonian society was actually rewarding

Pajjar for murdering another man. He started after Dusabi to complain, but the group

leader saw him coming, took him by the arm and led him aside. "Before you start

lecturing me, warmie," he said coldly, "you'd better know I did that for your sake."

 

"Mine?"

 

Dusabi nodded. "You're a good hunter. I don't want to lose you. If Pajjar thought you

were responsible for his losing what he'd earned he might slip a spear in your back

sometime. This way he'll just curse you as a doob for a while and then forget about it."

 

"What about Bagheddes?"

 

The group leader shrugged. "Live bodies are more important than dead ones. There's

too much work in the village." Jules looked back at the body. Bagheddes had by this time

been stripped completely naked by Pajjar and the other hunters; resources on Gastonia

were too scarce to allow anything to be wasted. "Aren't we at least going to bury him?"

he asked. "Why bother? Plenty of scavengers around to finish him off. We've got to get

our catch back into town before it starts going bad. Besides," the leader laughed

ironically, "what are you going to dig a grave with-your bare hands?"

 

Jules was silent for the rest of the afternoon as the party gathered up its catches from

the previous day and began the arduous task of hauling the sleekars back into the village.

He was soberly pondering the new lesson he had learned about life on Gastonia:

anything is forgiven if you can get away with it. Nothing, particularly here, succeeded like

success.

 

They got back into town just before dusk. They were met by a party of workers who

hauled the sleekar carcasses away for processing; Jules and the other hunters went

down to the Central Registry to collect their wages. Jules was due a handsome bonus

for his three kills, but when the money was counted out he found he'd gotten only half of

what was owed him.

 

"Taxes," was the clerk's only answer when Jules complained. Jules swallowed his

intended reply, and stomped out with his money.

 

By the time he finished paying back his colleagues for sharing their meals with him, he

had only a third of what he'd earned. As he turned to go back to his and Yvonne's hut,

Dusabi stopped him and told him of a much larger hunting expedition that would be

leaving in three days. The wages on that trip would be higher, although, since they'd be

hunting bigger game, the work would be harder and the risks greater. Dusabi was

impressed enough with Jules's work to recommend him for that group, along with a

promotion to the next higher grade. Jules said he was indeed interested in serving on that

team, and told Dusabi to contact him if it became definite. Somehow, though, he could

not bring himself to say "thank you" to the group leader, nor did Dusabi seem to expect

it. "Please" and "thank you" were expressions seldom used on Gastonia.

 

Vonnie had already finished her work for the day and was waiting for him when he

arrived home. Even as he rushed to embrace her, Jules was almost overpowered by the

smell. His wife stank of tannery chemicals. "Phew!" he said after they kissed. "Let's hope

you don't have to sneak up on anyone while we're here, unless he's upwind of you."

 

"You're not exactly a flower garden yourself, non cher. Dead animals stink, too."

 

Briefly they filled each other in on what had happened to them since Jules's departure

yesterday morning. Jules's recounting of Bagheddes's murder and the reactions to it left

Vonnie strangely silent for a long time. It was clear that she, too, was wondering what

sort of hellhole they had gotten themselves into.

 

By contrast to his, her own experiences had been rather tame. Other than turning down

propositions from every man she encountered, her job was quite routine. She was a

common laborer, carrying piles of skins to and from the chemical vats. She had not yet

drawn her first salary payment, and was dismayed to hear Jules's tale of the "taxes." "It

doesn't look like we'll get ahead very quickly here just being ordinary hardworking

citizens, does it?" she said.

 

"I think we'd better find some way to get ourselves into the mayor's organization quickly,"

Jules agreed, "before we find ourselves so buried in debts that we can't move

effectively."

 

While Vonnie's two days had been unexciting, she had managed to learn a great deal,

and had done wonders toward making their little but into a more civilized place to live.

She had "liberated" a couple of candles from the tannery to provide them with some light

at night, and had bought a few small kitchen implements to help make their meals more

than a mere spontaneous satisfaction of animal appetites. They had a pot of hard-baked

clay, while most of their utensils were of carved bone. Gastonia, for all the harshness of

its interactions, was a society that let nothing go to waste. Of the animals killed by

hunters, for instance, the meat was eaten; the furs were worn; leather was made into

boots, belts, pouches and thongs; fats were rendered down into tallow for candles; and

bones were carved into tools such as spoons, forks, knives and needles. There was

even one animal whose bones were so hard that pieces of them could be used as nails in

carpentry, allowing the people of the village to build more elaborate structures than the

simple huts SOTE provided.

 

While Vonnie went to work the next day, Jules strolled around the village, familiarizing

himself with its layout. There was one section of the town which was roped off apart

from the rest, and guarded at intervals by men wielding wicked-looking bone machetes.

Jules was turned away when he casually tried to explore inside; he surmised that this

was the area where the mayor and his cohorts lived. He would make a more serious

attempt to get inside there when he knew more of what he was looking for.

 

There were plenty of the one-room prefab huts; they were the predominant architectural

feature in the village. There were also larger buildings: barracks to house those people

who wanted to live more cheaply, who didn't mind sacrificing privacy, and who may even

have preferred the close companionship and warmth of their fellow exiles. Other large

structures were the manufacturing areas, where mass production of hides and tallow

was performed. Pottery, stone working and bonecarving, Jules assumed, were cottage

industries best done in the security of one's own home.

 

The only buildings that had any real color to them were the bars. Jules had expected to

find such places, and was not disappointed. No matter where they were, human beings

devoted a large portion of their invention and energy to distilling alcoholic spirits-and the

more depressing the living conditions, the more important alcohol seemed to be.

Gastonia was a natural haven for bars, and there were plenty of them. The villagers had

learned, over the years, to make an astonishing array of beverages from local varieties

of grains and fruits.

 

Jules had not expected to find the bars open during the day but, to his surprise, they

were. Hunters between assignments, such as himself, could not be expected to stay

home all day, and there was a minimum of other entertainment available in the village.

People who were "self-employed"-potters, wood and bone-carvers, and others who

worked in the necessary crafts-would often take a little time off to drop around the local

bar to see what was happening. And the mayor's lieutenants, who seemed to have little

to do all day but swagger around and lord over the less fortunate, made a habit of

hanging around the bars, gambling, drinking and making life miserable for everyone else.

 

Jules scouted the various places out. One of them in particular seemed to be a favorite

haunt of the mayor's gang, although the action in there during the afternoon was a bit

slow. Jules made himself a note to return there later with Vonnie, then returned home to

fix dinner for his wife.

 

When Yvonne came home from work they had a quick meal and then went out. Vonnie

was eager to see what they could stir up in the bar. "When all you do is haul hides

around all day," she said, "anything is a welcome change. I hope we get a break in this

case soon-I know our job is dangerous, but hazardous duty should not include being

bored to death."

 

Once inside the bar-a dimly lit establishment known simply as "Sasha's"-they ordered a

couple of mild drinks and went over to a pair of stools in one quiet corner to observe

events. They had long since learned the knack of nursing a single drink all evening; like all

DesPlainians, they were allergic to alcohol and found the taste utterly disgusting. They

forced themselves to drink, though, as just one more of the sacrifices they made in the

service of their Emperor.

 

As they watched people's interactions and eavesdropped on random conversations, they

slowly gained more of a feel for the social life in the village. As was true in all human

society, status levels had formed based on such factors as occupation, income and

personal character. People in the routine, menial jobs-such as Vonnie-were considered

on the lowest rung of the ladder, while hunters ranked fairly high. A top-notch hunter, in

fact, could become a minor celebrity. The top spots in the village were occupied by the

mayor and his minions, plus a few of the classier ladies who had chosen to be

courtesans.

 

As the d'Alemberts watched, it became clear that there was one loudmouthed braggart

named Voorhes who was much taken with his own self-importance at being the number

three man in the mayor's administration. After a whispered consultation between them,

the two SOTE agents got up from their seats and approached the man. "Gospodin

Voorhes?" Jules asked with what he hoped was the proper degree of reverence.

 

Voorhes looked them both over. The only clothing the d'Alemberts had was the outfits

they'd been given just before leaving the walled garrison-much too well-made to pass as

native wear. It marked them instantly as warmies to the local populace. They would buy

new clothes as soon as they could spare the money, but until then they could expect little

but scorn from the more established people.

 

"What do you want?" Voorhes asked brusquely, wanting as little to do with these

newcomers as possible.

 

"We were hoping you could help us get a job with the mayor. We've been hearing you

say how important you are to him, and we were wondering..."

 

"How long have you warmies been in the village?" "Four days now, sir."

 

Voorhes gave them a sneer. "Four whole days, and you'd like to work for the mayor. I've

been here ten years, and I had to work hard to make it. Get out of my sight before I take

it into my head to beat some respect into you."

 

He started to turn away, had a second thought and turned to face Vonnie. "You. You're

not bad-looking. The mayor might just be willing to give you a very special job. Of course,

I'd have to try you out first, just to make sure you're good enough."

 

"Oh, I'm good enough," Vonnie said, her voice as cold as the weather outside. "In fact,

I'm more than good enough. I'm entirely too good for either you or your boss."

 

"Sassy little jamtart, aren't you?" Voorhes said with a lazy grin. "We'll have to teach you

a lesson in Gastonian manners." He reached out one meaty hand to grab Vonnie's arm

and pull her toward him.

 

But Vonnie was no longer there. As the man reached for her she sidestepped adroitly,

grabbed his extended arm, and flipped him through the air in a single motion that looked

positively effortless-and it was effortless, for someone with the strength of a DesPlainian

in perfect physical condition. The bar's other patrons cleared hastily out of the way, and

Voorhes landed with a solid thud on the hard stone floor.

 

The man shook his head and rose slowly to his feet, still not completely convinced that a

mere woman had been able to toss him so easily. He was angry, though, at being made

to look a fool in front of the people he'd just been bragging to. He was not going to let

that happen again. With a snarl, he braced his feet firmly and reached for Yvonne a

second time.

 

The agent dodged again, but this time-instead of flipping Voorhes through the air-she

twisted his arm around behind his back, so high that his hand was well up between the

shoulder blades. As the man cried out in pain, she used the side of her flattened left hand

to give a hard backhand chop to his midsection, right at kidney level. Her victim exhaled

sharply, and she hooked a foot around his to trip him. As he fell to the floor, she fell on

top of him, her knee pressed with just enough force on his windpipe to prevent his

making any sudden moves.

 

When the fight started, Jules backed away to give his wife more room to work. He knew

that Vonnie was perfectly capable of handling a lout like Voorhes without any assistance

from him; he was more concerned with the rest of the spectators. He was going to make

certain this was a fair fight.

 

Most of the bar's patrons were grinning as they watched Yvonne handle Voorhes as

though he were a sack of flour. They had endured endless hours of his pompous boasts,

without the courage to stand up to him; now they were all reaping vicarious revenge on

the bully. But some of Voorhes's underlings were less than pleased about the way their

boss was being treated. They knew what a temper he had, and they were more than a

little afraid that he would take out his aggressions over this humiliation on them. Three of

them started forward to tackle this presumptuous young lady who had so badly

embarrassed Voorhes.

 

Although Vonnie could probably have taken care of four louts as easily as one, Jules

could see no reason why he should let his wife have all the fun. As the first of the trio

passed by him, he reached out and grabbed the man's wrist in an unbreakable grip. With

a quick turn, he flipped the man around so that he went crashing into the other two, and

all three would-be rescuers ended up in a tangled heap on the floor. The rest of the

crowd roared with laughter as the threesome scrambled around on the floor, cursing

madly as they tried to extricate themselves from one another.

 

But the laughter stopped abruptly as the front door swung open and a man entered the

bar. He was a big black man, easily over two meters tall, with shoulders almost as wide

as the doorframe. The bulky furs he wore made him seem like some wild creature of the

forest. His thick eyebrows arched over brooding, intelligent eyes, and his black beard

held only a few discrete touches of gray.

 

Neither Jules nor Yvonne needed a formal introduction. This man could only be Kwame

Tshombase, the mayor of the village.

 

No one moved as Tshombase's head turned and his eyes scanned the scene with a

penetrating stare. This was a man accustomed to power and the knowledge of what he

could do with it. The mayor's eyes rested on the helpless form of Voorhes lying on the

floor at Yvonne's mercy. "What's going on here?" he asked. Although his tone was

conversational, his deep, booming voice carried its authority to every corner of the room.

 

Jules was not cowed by Tshombase's power. Stepping forward, he bowed his head

slightly as a minimal acknowledgment and said, "My wife and I wanted to work for you,

sir.

 

We asked Gospodin Voorhes about the possibility, and he saw fit to assault my wife

instead. Since we were sure you would not want your officers to appear so uncouth in

public, we took it upon ourselves to reprimand him and his friends on your behalf."

 

There was a hint of a smile at the corners of Tshombase's mouth, but none of it crept

into his voice as he told Yvonne, "Release him."

 

Vonnie glanced over at her husband, and Jules gave a short nod. Reluctantly she stood

up, releasing her hold on Voorhes, and backed two steps away. The mayor's lieutenant

choked and coughed a bit and got woozily to his knees, but could get no higher for

another minute or so.

 

Tshombase looked back at Jules. "I do not hire warmies, no matter how good they are in

a fight. They simply don't have the experience to make themselves useful to me. Try

again in a couple of years."

 

He then turned to his number three man. "I'll have a talk with you in my office tomorrow

morning," was all he said. Without further ceremony, he turned and walked out the door

as abruptly as he'd entered.

 

Later that evening, after the d'Alemberts had returned home, they discussed the situation

between themselves. Both were disappointed that their prowess had not led to a job

offer; they knew they had to penetrate the organization somehow if they were to find out

how people were getting off the planet.

 

"We could try taking Tshombase in a fight," Yvonne suggested. "By beating him we could

take over the whole operation, and start in at the top."

 

Jules shook his head. "It won't work. You have to be more than just a good fighter to rule

a village like this. Didn't you see Tshombase's eyes? He's no dummy. You need a

full-scale organization behind you. If we knocked off Tshombase, we wouldn't be able to

control his men; the village would split into a dozen different factions as each of his

officers carved out his own chunk of territory. We'd have to work slowly, behind the

scenes, and build up our own organization, to be prepared to step into the power vacuum

as soon as Tshombase's out of the way. That kind of work takes time-months at a

minimum, years more than likely."

 

"We haven't got months, or years," Vonnie sighed dejectedly.

 

"Exactly. Which is why we'll have to find some other way." Jules paced about the small

room, pounding his left palm with his right fist. "Somehow, on this crazy planet, there

must be some method of working our way into the system quickly enough to find what

we need."

 

But they were unable to think of it that night.

 

Chapter 7

Pirate Raid

 

If Pias and Yvette Bavol had founded their ship, the Paradise, as a purely commercial

venture, they would probably have been delighted with the results. The passengers were

all quite rich, and more than happy to spend their money in such luxurious settings. They

praised the rooms and the furnishings. They gambled their rubles away at a prodigious

rate, with the house raking in a generous percentage of the pot. The men and women

Yvette had hired as "escorts" were doing a bang-up business, and the owners of the

Paradise got their cut of that. Money was coming in so well that Pias calculated it would

only take a year, at this rate, to recoup their initial investment and begin to show a profit.

 

Nevertheless, they were depressed. The d'Alembert family considered its money and its

entrepreneurial talents merely as a means to an end-the end being the safety and

security of the Empire and the Imperial family. In this particular case, they were not

achieving the results they'd hoped for.

 

The Paradise had started out from Egon to the planet Bromberg, where they picked up

some more passengers for their quadrangle cruise through the chosen four star systems.

Despite the fact that they had the best subspace detection system money could buy,

they detected only one other ship near them during the run-a large, ponderous freighter

that posed no threat whatsoever. On the second leg of their journey, from Bromberg to

Hsoli, and on the third leg from Hsoli to Kuragana there was not the slightest trace of

company. Their alarms went off on the journey from Kuragana back to Egon as a small

fast ship pulled up to them, but it turned out to be a false alarm-merely a private vessel

that had lost its bearings and was needing some help returning to port.

 

Even the normally ebullient Pias was becoming discouraged. "Maybe we're not being

obvious enough," he complained to his wife. "Maybe we ought to paint a sign on the side:

'First Interstellar Pirate Bank. Withdrawals Encouraged."'

 

"They may be sizing us up. We did put a heavy emphasis on how unbeatable our

defenses were; they may want to see a little more how we operate before trying

anything. We've only made one complete circuit so far. Now that our first passengers are

getting off, they'll spread the word about what a fantastic time they had-and what a rich

haul this could be. The largest part of a SOTE agent's job is waiting, I'm afraid."

 

"But how much longer can we afford to wait'? The Coronation is only two months away."

 

Yvette reached across to ruffle his light brown hair. "At least you seem to be enjoying

yourself while we're waiting. You've got a casino all your own to play with. The pirates

are just a little out of touch, that's all; as soon as they learn about us, they'll be here.

Besides-don't you have some old Gypsy proverb or other to console you?"

 

"Sure." Pias gave her a mock laugh. "`Patience is good, but quick hands are better.' In

other words, all things come to he who waits-but he who takes gets them first."

 

The Paradise made a second complete circuit of the four planets, and still there was no

sign of trouble. The entire crew was rapidly losing spirit. As was true of all d'Alemberts,

they longed for quick action, and the waiting was a strain on their nerves.

 

At last, on their third run from Egon to Bromberg, the Paradise's pilot encountered an

unidentified reading on their detection screens. The object was matching their course

precisely, and was not emitting any of the standard recognition signals. All in all, it was a

prime suspect for a pirate craft.

 

Ever since the first voyage, Pias had scheduled "pirate attack drills" for the passengers

at irregular intervals. As he explained to them, it was just so they would know what to do

in case of an emergency. Rather than alarm people, he pretended that this was just

another drill. As they had done on previous occasions, the guests filed obediently to their

comfortable rooms and locked themselves in, expecting the "all clear" buzzer to sound in

a minute. This time, however, they were destined to wait a bit longer.

 

When the monitors showed that all the non-d'Alemberts were safely in their quarters,

Yvette activated the internal security system. Heavy metal doors slammed down in front

of all the passenger cabins, making it impossible for anyone to get in or out without at

least a heavy-duty blaster and five uninterrupted minutes of burning through the shield.

This would keep the pirates from bothering any of the ship's guests-and it would also

keep the passengers out of the line of fire, giving the d'Alemberts free rein to act as

necessary.

 

At first, the Paradise made the standard maneuver for a ship that suspected it was about

to come under pirate attack: it dropped out of subspace into the real universe and began

sending out a distress signal to the nearest Navy base. This was necessary because a

ship within subspace could not generate a subcom signal; they would have to be in

normal space to call for help. Also, the theory was that by dropping into normal

space-thereby slowing their speed considerably-there was always the chance that the

pirate ship would overshoot them and then be unable to find them again.

 

The pirates, of course, knew this trick as well, and were quite prepared for it. The instant

the Paradise slipped back into regular space the pirate ship did the same, staying right

beside its prey and not giving it a chance to escape. Simultaneously, the outlaw vessel

sent out a jamming signal to prevent the Paradise's distress call from being understood.

All this worked exactly according to the pirates' plan.

 

Unfortunately for them, nothing else did.

 

The next phase of the attack was supposed to be a shot from the pirate ship to destroy

its target's engines, thus making it incapable of further flight. But that was not possible

this time. The Paradise's engines, located at the bottom of the onion shaped bulb,

retracted into the body of the ship. The Paradise could not fly in that configuration-but

neither could it be incapacitated unless the pirates were willing to blast large chunks out

of the vessel itself and risk losing a sizeable percentage of their potential loot.

 

The pirate captain decided not to do that. The Paradise was immobilized, which was all

he thought he needed; if the ship extended its engines again for an escape attempt, his

gunners could destroy the drive components then. In the meantime, he ordered his

boarding party into action.

 

Forty pirates, each clad in heavy battle armor, jetted across the gulf of space between

the two ships, bringing with them a boarding hatch. This was an auxiliary compartment

that could be sealed on the outside of the Paradise, thus allowing the pirates to cut

through the hull without letting the air escape. This was not a humanitarian gesture

prompted by concern for the welfare of the passengers and crew of the Paradise; the

pirates knew that many of the passengers were wealthy people, and there was always

the possibility of obtaining extra money by holding them for ransom.

 

When the pirates reached their objective, however, they discovered that the boarding

hatch was quite unnecessary. The Paradise's outer hatch was standing ajar, an open

invitation for them to enter. This disturbed the leader of the boarding party sufficiently for

him to radio back to his own ship for further instructions. His captain, a man of great

bluster and little imagination, told him to proceed with the attack as planned. If the

Paradise's crew were foolish enough to let the pirates in, they deserved what they got.

 

The Paradise's main airlock would not accommodate all forty pirates at once. Fearing

that this might be a trap to break them into smaller groups, the attack leader had the

boarding hatch fastened to the ship anyway, so they could all go through the inner lock at

once. They waited the required three minutes for the pressure to equalize between the

airlock and the rest of the ship, then pushed through the inner lock, prepared for battle.

 

They found themselves facing an empty corridor-something that had never happened

before. The airlock confrontation was normally the crucial battle, because the crew of the

victim ship was hoping to stop the invaders at the bottleneck as they came out of the

lock. To let the pirates simply walk in unopposed did not seem like sound battle tactics.

Nevertheless, the leader urged his fighters to be cautious as they spread out through the

ship in search of their victims.

 

They had crossed several intersecting corridors without seeing any sign of life, and had

fanned out to cover more territory when, without warning, the ultragrav was turned up in

the hallways. Suddenly, the pirates found themselves battling the crushing forces of more

than two gees.

 

Space armor is heavy stuff, it has to be, to protect its wearer from the blaster beams he

can expect to take in a pitched battle. It is usually used under zero gravity conditions.

(This is another reason why the pirate vessel tries to destroy the engines of its prey-to

knock out the equipment for generating artificial gravity.) In freefall, a man in battle armor

is well-nigh invincible.

 

The pirates had encountered a standard one-gee field when they entered the Paradise.

This was uncomfortable, but hardly catastrophic. The armor could be managed under

such conditions, and the protection it gave more than made up for the slight loss of

maneuverability.

 

But now the gravitational pull was more than twice what they expected. Some of the

pirates, caught in an off-balance position by the sudden switch in gravity, fell to the floor

and had trouble getting to their feet again; like turtles on their backs, they kicked around

awkwardly in their cumbersome suits. Other pirates staggered, and had to brace

themselves against the walls to keep from keeling over like their fellows. Given enough

time, they could have adjusted to the situation and helped their comrades to their feet

again as well; but, of course, the d'Alemberts were not about to give them enough time.

 

The instant the ultragrav was turned on, an army of d'Alemberts appeared as if from

nowhere, descending on the hapless pirates. They too were clad in full battle armor-but

there was a difference. In this two-gee field, even with the heavy armor on, the

DesPlainians still only weighed about the same as they normally did on their own home

planet. They could move about with perfect ease and breathtaking speed. In comparison,

the pirates were stodgy and awkward, stumbling around like drunks on an icy sidewalk.

 

There was no contest. The d'Alemberts had blasters of their own, but scarcely needed

them. They closed rapidly with their foes, locked in personal combat. The pirates were

so slow-moving that generally the d'Alemberts would have a pirate's helmet off before

the invader could raise his weapon and fire in self-defense. A gentle "tap" from an

armored fist was more than sufficient to render each pirate unconscious and past caring

about the outcome of the fight. The Paradise suffered no major damage at all, merely a

few minor burns on the walls where some stray blaster beams went awry. None of the

defending crewmembers was in any way hurt.

 

While the fight was going on inside the Paradise, an even more surprising development

was taking place aboard the pirate vessel. Even as the attack force had been jetting over

to the Paradise, a small group of d'Alemberts with a boarding hatch of their own was

surreptitiously swimming over to the outlaw ship. They took a long, roundabout route so

that the pirate captain did not even think to look for them; they approached his ship from

the side facing away from the Paradise, and the captain had no inkling of their presence

until they actually blew open his inner hatch and began taking over his ship.

 

This was an unheard-of maneuver. Never in the history of commercial space travel had a

"victim" ship ever launched a counterattack against a bandit. The crew of the target

vessel normally had enough trouble defending their own craft; they should have neither

the resources nor the presence of mind to strike back at their tormentors.

 

The Paradise, however, had been designed first and foremost to deal with pirates;

gambling was at best a secondary consideration. Its crew were all well-trained

professionals, and they had their plans laid out well in advance of this encounter. They

were here to smash the pirate threat thoroughly, and that was what they were going to

do.

 

The light aboard the outlaw ship was no better matched than the one aboard the

Paradise. The pirate vessel was manned only by a skeleton crew; all its fighters had

gone across to do business on the other ship. Those left behind had not expected a fight.

They were not in their battle armor, and they did not have their weapons readily at hand.

They were waiting casually, as they'd done plenty of times before, to hear from their

comrades that the other ship had been taken and there was lots of booty for all. There

were only ten d'Alemberts in the attack force, but that was quite enough.

 

Before the bandit captain could give the order to flee, his ship had been overrun and his

crew was unconscious from the effects of the d'Alemberts' stunners. The captain himself

fared little better. Three DesPlainians broke into the bridge, where he had hastily

barricaded himself, and captured him without a fight. The captain was a pitiful sight as he

pleaded desperately for mercy from his captors-mercy he would never have shown them

had their places been reversed.

 

With the situation now well in hand, the d'Alemberts turned off the pirates' jammer and

calmly sent out their subcom call to the Navy. At the same time, aboard the Paradise,

Pias released his passengers from their rooms and casually explained that there had

been a real pirate attack this time, but that his defense system was all he had promised

it would be. The bandits had been defeated, and the Navy would come soon to take

them away. The cruise would then continue on as it had been doing-but he did apologize

that there would probably be a one-day delay in reaching the next port.

 

Some of the passengers were upset that they had been kept in the dark about the raid

until it was all over, but most of them were quite relieved. Few ships had ever dealt with

a pirate attack so successfully, and the security they gained from that knowledge more

than made up for the uncertainties they had felt during the raid itself. They knew they

were safe in the Paradise-a claim few other nonmilitary ships could make.

 

The Navy officers who came to the "rescue" were quite astounded at what the crew of

the Paradise had done. Pias did not tell them that this had been a SOTE operation from

beginning to end; there was no point in blowing his cover. Nor, despite strong pleas from

the captain of the naval destroyer, did Pias explain exactly how he had managed to turn

the tables on his attackers. He simply presented the capture to the Navy as a fait

accompli and let them worry what to do about it from there. He had a ship to run, after

all, and it was already behind schedule.

 

"The best part," Yvette said later, when they were alone in their own cabin, "is that none

of the pirates got away to tell their cronies how we did it. The same trick would work

again if we have to do it."

 

"We shouldn't have to, though," Pias replied. "We've just made the point we wanted to

make-we're no pushovers, despite the ship's frivolous appearance. From now. on, the

pirates will respect us-and me in particular, since I'm supposedly the brains of the outfit.

Now we move into Phase Two, before they decide to regroup and try another attack."

 

Yvette scowled. This was the part of the plan she didn't like. It would separate them as a

team and make coordinated effort difficult, if not impossible. Each would be on his own

from this point until they could actually smash the pirate organization. Yvette recognized

the necessity for acting this way, but there was no rule that said she had to enjoy it.

 

Thus it was that Yvette left the Paradise when it reached Bromberg and, operating under

the name Mila Farese, set about the process of betraying her husband, and selling him

out to the pirate chief.

 

Chapter 8

A Proper Gastonian

 

Time on Gastonia had an unpleasant tendency to lapse into a monotonous pattern. The

days dragged by for Jules and Yvonne, stacking one atop another in an accumulation of

weeks, and-aside from learning how to survive on their new world with more than a

minimum of comfort-they had the dreadful feeling that nothing was being accomplished.

 

Jules was gaining himself quite a reputation as a hunter, being successful on all the hunts

in which he participated. After a month on Gastonia, during which he'd been on three

major expeditions, he was making top money for a mere spearman. It was only a matter

of time before he'd be promoted to an assistant hunt leader, in charge of coordinating a

subgroup within the expedition. He was accepted by the other hunters as a friend and

comrade. and became a trusted member of their circle. But despite the fact that they

would talk to him more freely, he could not find out anything about a conspiracy on

Gastonia. The ordinary run of villagers did not know about such things.

 

Vonnie was able to confirm that from her own experience. Work in the tanning plant was

far less glamorous than hunting, and there was less room for advancement without

several years of apprenticeship learning the secrets of the craft. Nevertheless, Vonnie's

strength, her devotion to her job, and her willingness to shoulder even the dirtiest tasks

without complaint-a rare quality on Gastonia-brought her into favor with the plant's

managers. She occasionally received incentive bonuses, and was appointed shop

warden over the other workers in her department. Some of the people who'd been there

longer than she had were jealous of her rapid advancement, feeling their seniority should

have been taken into account, but she got along with most of her co-workers and there

were few problems. As Jules had found with the hunters, though, the ordinary citizens did

not appear to know about a conspiracy to take some people off the planet.

 

Because Jules spent much of his time away from the village on hunting expeditions-once

for six days at a time-the task of learning the ins and outs of Gastonian society fell

largely to his wife. Vonnie was a shrewd observer, and paid particular attention to the

finely spun webs of power within the village. Kwame Tshombase was, of course, the

ultimate boss, and his word was law-but he could not be everywhere at once, and he

relied on a series of lieutenants to keep the peace. Within the broad limits established by

Tshombase, each of these lieutenants was a petty tyrant within his own fiefdom. The

infighting and jockeying for favored positions among the lieutenants could sometimes

become fierce and bloody-a phenomenon their boss seemed to encourage. Perhaps it

amused him to watch his underlings squabbling among themselves-but more likely he

recognized the principle that if they were busy fighting each other, they would not have

the time or energy to think of overthrowing him.

 

But even Tshombase's men could not wield all the authority in the village. There were

always cracks between the jurisdictions, and in these cracks the scavengers gathered.

Petty bureaucrats held sway over their own minor territories; bullies and ruffians

terrorized the less aggressive members of the community; and always in the background

were muffled plots and dreams to build a rival organization, depose Tshombase and take

over control of the village. For some, this was only idle speculation-but Yvonne had little

doubt that there were a few laying serious plans in that direction.

 

One night, while Jules was away on a hunting trip, she awoke to hear a strange noise. At

first, in the moment of half wakefulness before coming fully alert, it was only a dull

buzzing sound-but something told her that this sound had no right to be here on Gastonia.

As she came to complete consciousness the sound was already receding. It had come

from above, and was definitely mechanical. To Vonnie's sharp ears, it sounded exactly

like a copier flying overhead.

 

Wrapping her body in furs, she leaped off the bed and ran to the door to check out this

development. The cold night wind hit her like an icy fist as she threw open the door and

peered out into the night. But there was nothing to see in the sky except the dark,

oppressive gray of storm clouds swirling the third snowstorm of the week down upon the

village. The humming sound was now at the very limits of audibility, and in another

second was gone altogether. If it was a copier, it had gone on its way in a hurry.

 

Yvonne was in a thoughtful mood as she closed the door and returned to snuggle deeply

into the bed furs. A copier was almost as out of place here as a palm tree. It certainly

could not belong to any of the exiles. The residents of the village had only wood, stone

and bone implements; they totally lacked the capacity to work in metals, let alone

construct anything as sophisticated as a copier. The vehicle could, of course, belong to

the Governor or his staff; perhaps the guards conducted systematic surveys of the area

by air, or perhaps there was some special mission that Vonnie couldn't even guess at.

But if it were part of a regular survey, why do it at night in a snowstorm? They'd be

unlikely to see much under those conditions.

 

There were no easy answers to the puzzle, although she had the definite feeling that the

copier pilot had wanted to remain as secretive as possible. She finally fell asleep once

more with the knowledge that there were still facets of life on Gastonia that were eluding

her grasp.

 

The complexities increased dramatically two days later. Jules was still away on his hunt,

not expected back for another couple of days, so, instead of going straight home after

work, Yvonne took one of her long exploratory walks through the village. She was

learning her way around the town quite well, and had not gotten lost once in the past two

weeks. It was an accomplishment in which she took no little pride.

 

Suddenly she heard an outcry of several male voices, including one man yelling distinctly,

"There she is! Don't let her get away!"

 

Vonnie whirled defensively, thinking at first someone might be after her. After a second,

though, it was clear that the cries were coming from the next street over, past this row of

shanty houses, and that the sound of running footsteps was paralleling her path rather

than coming toward her. Ever curious, the SOTE agent broke into a run herself, dashing

between the houses to see what was happening in the next street.

 

As she emerged on the new street, she saw a fleeing form thirty meters away being

pursued by half a dozen men-and one of the pursuers she recognized instantly as

Voorhes, the man she'd fought in the bar several weeks ago. Rumors had spread shortly

after that incident that Voorhes had been demoted by Tshombase after the fight-though

whether the reason was for unseemly brawling in public or for being unable to defeat a

woman was never made clear. Vonnie suspected it was the latter, and she'd made a

point to avoid contact with Voorhes since then. Life on Gastonia was dangerous enough

without making enemies-especially when there were no laws against murder.

 

One of Voorhes's men reached out and grabbed the fugitive's arm. As the figure was

spun back facing Vonnie's direction, the DesPlainian could see with some surprise that it

was a very young girl, clad in lighter furs than the men. The man who had initially

grabbed her held her long enough for Voorhes to catch up. The bully gave his captive a

vicious backhand slap across the face that sent the poor girl reeling backward into a

snowbank.

 

There was no question where Vonnie's sympathies lay. For all she knew, the girl could

be a thief and a murderer, and Voorhes might be perfectly justified in hunting her down

with his friends. But having seen Voorhes in action before, and knowing something of his

reputation, the SOTE agent was willing to bet there was more innocence on the girl's

side of the slate than on his. Running at top speed, now, she hurried to the fugitive's

rescue.

 

The six men had been so intent in their pursuit of the girl that Vonnie's attack from the

rear was a complete surprise. Launching herself in a low trajectory, Vonnie dove at the

legs of the nearest man. She hit him right in the back of his knees with the full force of

her seventy-two kilogram weight, and he fell forward with a surprised grunt. Vonnie came

down with him and was tangled in his flailing limbs for an instant; but she used her

momentum to help her roll forward, and she was extricated and back in action before any

of the other men could act.

 

Scrambling to her feet, the battling DesPlainian turned toward the next man. He had

heard his friend cry out and was swiveling to face her when Vonnie caught him squarely

in the stomach with a punch delivered at full DesPlainian strength. The man doubled over,

offering his face as a target too tempting to resist; Yvonne gave him a solid uppercut that

literally knocked the man off his feet. He crashed to the ground a meter away and

sprawled unconscious on the snow.

 

The few seconds she had spent on these two men gave the other four a chance to

prepare themselves for the fight. Each was armed with a long stone knife-crude,

perhaps, in terms of modern-day weaponry, but quite capable of slitting open a careless

opponent. As Voorhes looked at Yvonne, wondering why anyone should attack him here,

a dawning light of recognition appeared in his eyes. Yvonne had undoubtedly starred in

numerous retribution fantasies dreamed by Voorhes in the past few weeks; it didn't

matter to him now why she was here. The mere fact that she was facing him alone,

unarmed, while he had three friends, all with knives-that fact was quite sufficient for him.

 

Vonnie took but a second to give the situation a quick scan and plan her moves. Although

she had never been a circus performer like her husband, she had undergone a thorough

training at the Service Academy in the techniques of unarmed combat, and had scored a

respectable 989 overall in the thousand-point test-and those in addition to her being a

native-born DesPlainian. Under those circumstances, four to one was an even match.

 

The nearest man came charging at her like an enraged bull, knife held outward in a very

obvious posture. Vonnie had to resist the urge to shout "Ole!" as she daintily sidestepped

him, grabbed his outstretched arm, and twisted it back with a severe yank. The man's

arm had been stiff, and there was a quite audible crack as the SOTE agent jerked it

around. The man screamed and, in his agony, dropped his knife. With a quick, sweeping

gesture, Yvonne plucked the blade out of midair before it had fallen halfway to the

ground. As her attacker fell writhing to the snow, she spun to deal with the other three.

 

The man next closest to her had hoped to take advantage of her preoccupation with his

friend. While Vonnie had been busy in one direction, he came lunging at her from another,

his blade slashing quickly through the air. She barely had time to turn around before he

was upon her. He'd brought his blade up to aim at her face, but her very act of turning

caused his swipe to miss by several centimeters. As his arm came up, she ducked under

him and slipped around behind him.

 

She wanted to use her knife to slash at him, but realized that would be almost useless.

Everyone on Gastonia dressed in heavy furs, and unless she could be certain of scoring

a direct hit the most she would probably accomplish with her crude weapon was to cut

open the coat's sleeve. Worse yet, there was the chance that the edge of her blade

might snag on her enemy's coat and be torn from her grasp as he pulled away from her

again.

 

Rather than risk losing her weapon, Yvonne decided to stick with her already successful

tactics of hand combat. As she came around behind her attacker she jabbed her elbow

backward into his side, right at kidney level. The man howled and instinctively grabbed at

his side, leaving his defenses open. Vonnie promptly took advantage of the lapse,

stepping around to the man's other side and delivering two more punches that dropped

him to the ground, where he lay moaning in pain.

 

Even as he fell, however, Vonnie was tackled from behind by Voorhes's last remaining

accomplice. The impact of his body against hers knocked her down into the snow. He

landed on top of her, jarring her slightly-but coming as she did from a three-gee world,

the fall seemed both slow and trivial. She had time to twist around slightly and get into a

better position for landing-and a better position to defend herself.

 

Finding himself momentarily in a superior position, the man raised his knife to bring it

stabbing down at the woman's throat. Vonnie quickly reached up and blocked the motion

with her forearm, simultaneously squirming to roll over and try to get on top. With a

sudden convulsion she arched her body upward, catching her assailant by surprise and

tossing him off. Yvonne rolled on top of him and, with one quick stroke, brought her knife

down hard at the base of his throat, just above the collar bone. The man made a soft

gurgling sound as his body jerked spasmodically for a few seconds, then lay still. Yvonne

had not a trace of sympathy for him. He would gladly have done the same to her-and he

was already a convicted traitor, anyway. She merely supplied the death sentence.

 

Even before the dead man's body had stopped moving, she had rolled off it again and

was getting to her feet to deal with Voorhes himself. But the leader of the pack was not

waiting around to be beaten or killed. Having seen Yvonne dispose of his five comrades,

and having himself been the victim of her abilities once before, the cowardly traitor

decided that discretion, at this point, would be the better part of his valor. Turning tail, he

ran off down the street, totally abandoning both his friends and the girl who had been the

original object of his attentions.

 

Vonnie got to her feet and started after him, but one boot hit a patch of icy snow and she

slipped to her knees. By the time she stood up again, Voorhes had better than a

twenty-five meter lead. With her superior speed she could probably have caught him had

she really tried, but she could see no point in it now. The village was small enough that

she would certainly run into Voorhes again sometime, and any unfinished business could

be dealt with then. In the meantime, she turned back to look at the girl who'd been the

cause of the fracas.

 

The girl lay in the snowbank where she'd fallen after Voorhes slapped her, cowering

away from Yvonne and whimpering with pain and fear. Yvonne tossed her knife aside

and approached the girl slowly with open hands. "Don't worry," she said quietly. "I won't

hurt you. I only want to help."

 

The fugitive's face was unfamiliar, and as Vonnie studied it more closely she realized with

a start that the girl was no more than thirteen years old-far too young to have been sent

to Gastonia as a traitor. She started to wonder how the girl had gotten here, and then

realized how simple the answer must be. The girl would have gotten here the same way

almost any thirteen-year-old got anywhere-by being born there.

 

Gastonia had first been settled by exiles a hundred and fifty years ago. Many of the

people sent here were still comparatively young and of child-bearing age. It was only

natural, once she thought about it, that the exiles would begin building up a "native

population" of their own, children born here who had never lived anywhere else. If she

and Jules had indeed been doomed to spend the rest of their lives on this planet, they

would undoubtedly have had a number of children here. The idea only seemed strange

because the rest of the Empire thought of Gastonia purely as a prison, not as a

colonized world in its own right.

 

Vonnie realized, too, that she had not seen any children in the village since her arrival.

Where are they? she wondered. After a century and a half, there must be

great-great-grandchildren of the original exiles living somewhere on this enormous

snowball. But they're certainly not in the village; I'd stake my life that all the people here

are traitors sent to this prison. Where do the natives live?

 

She put her questions aside for a moment to examine the girl more closely. The fugitive's

face was covered with welts and bruises, and she held her left arm cradled delicately in

her right. Vonnie reached inside the girl's furs to probe with her delicate fingers, and

confirmed her suspicions that the girl had suffered a shoulder separation. That, plus the

bruises, meant the girl would need medical attention.

 

"How are you feeling?" Vonnie asked. "Would you be able to walk for a while?"

 

"My shoulder hurts," the girl said in a pitiful little voice. She tried to stand, but was too

dazed. She'd been able to flee from her captors because adrenaline was being pumped

through her body, pushing away the shock of the pain. Now that the crisis was over, she

was far too stunned to be much help to herself.

 

"Don't worry," Vonnie said as the girl continued her struggle to get up. "I can carry you.

You don't look all that heavy." Bending down, she picked up the girl and cradled her in

her arms. The girl only weighed forty kilos, so the two of them together on Gastonia

weighed only half of what Vonnie alone weighed on DesPlaines. The SOTE agent had

little trouble carrying her timid passenger.

 

There were no doctors in the village itself. Vonnie had learned that the little bit of medical

services provided were dispensed from a special gate back at the walled garrison. It

would he a walk of about five kilometers; Jules and Yvonne had been unwilling to risk it

when they first arrived. being unaccustomed to the harsh climate, but now she thought

nothing of such a jaunt, even carrying the wounded girl: Walking would be preferable to

hiring that old pirate Zolotin's carriage mind, as Vonnie remembered its speed, probably

faster, too.

 

"What's your name?" she asked the girl as she started carrying her along the road out of

the village to the hills where the garrison was located.

 

"Katanya." The girl's voice was faint, and sounded very far away.

 

"You're not from the village, are you?"

 

The girl's eyes widened like a frightened fawn. She twisted in Vonnie's arms, trying

suddenly to escape, but the DesPlainian held her firmly. "Relax, I'm just taking you to a

doctor to help you get better. I'm your friend-or at least, I'd like to be if you'll let me. My

name is Florence Brecht."

 

Slowly, over the course of the long walk, Vonnie dragged the girl out of herself,

prompted her to explain the true situation on Gastonia. It was a portrait that was not only

fascinating, but also a little frightening in its implications. and gave the SOTE woman a

great deal to think about.

 

Gastonian society was divided into two cultures that had very little to do with one

another. There were the people in the village, the criminal element, the exiles who came

to Gastonia from all over the Galaxy. As hardened and tough as they were, they were

still too soft to face life on their own in the Gastonian wilderness, so they banded

together among their own kind not far from the outpost that kept watch over them. The

garrison gave them medical attention and a modicum of supplies-at least enough to keep

them going. These were people used to the comforts of civilization, and under these

harsh conditions they feared to wander too far away.

 

The first native Gastonians had been born over a century ago. They'd never known ease,

or warmth, or a life based on mechanized labor. For them, the bleak and barren forests

and plains, covered with snow the year around, ravaged by bitter storms and chilled by

freezing winds-for them, all these things were the norm. They could not understand their

parents' complaints about the life they had lost, and they frankly disbelieved some of the

stories of the marvels on other worlds. Gastonia was the only world they knew, and they

adjusted to it readily.

 

Between parents and children, exiles and natives, there grew a gap that could never be

bridged. Even though they knew they were here for the rest of their lives, the exiles from

the Empire could not forget their past. In their own small ways they clung to the pattern

of Imperial civilization, borrowing-and sometimes perverting-the social institutions that

existed on the other worlds. The children could not understand the need for

anachronisms that flew in the very face of survival on this forbidding world. To them,

there were simpler ways of existing without these elaborate and pointless rituals. There

were constant disputes between the generations over how things should be done.

 

Finally, when enough members of the native generation had reached an age when they

could take care of themselves, the formal split developed. The native-born people left the

village and went off to form their own culture-one that, to them, made more sense than

their parents'. They cooperated with nature on Gastonia rather than fighting aggressively

against it; they found an ecological niche as hunters and nomads. Their numbers grew as

they adapted to this world more and more over the years; they now numbered well over

a hundred thousand people, divided into hundreds of small tribes that ranged over the

continent.

 

More and more exiles came, but they, like their predecessors, were tied to the ways of

the civilization they'd known before coming here. After a while, though, it became

painfully obvious that any children they had would follow the pattern of the first children,

and leave when they were old enough. Rather than let each generation of newborns

make the same mistakes over again, a pact was arranged between the villagers and the

nomadic tribes: any children born in the village would be given over to the tribes

whenever one of them passed by that way. It was hard for any parent to simply hand his

child to a stranger and never see it again, but everyone in the village knew that the child

would have a better and a freer life than they themselves could ever hope for.

 

In general, the contacts between the villagers and the tribes were few and reasonably

pleasant-but every so often, someone would get out of hand. In this case, it was

Voorhes and his rowdy friends. There was currently a shortage of available females in

the village, and this half dozen had decided to do something about it. Learning that one

tribe had been camping nearby, they staged a raid to kidnap some of the women. The

only one they had managed to catch was Katanya, who was too small and weak to fight

off all six. She had resisted furiously, and been beaten unconscious for her efforts. She

was back in the village when she came to, she managed to break free of her bonds and

run away, but one of the men saw her and started the chase. Vonnie had ended it, and

Katanya was very grateful.

 

The implications of all this were enormous. There were many thousands of good, decent

people living here on this hostile prison planet, condemned to a primitive existence

because of something their parents-or, in some cases, even their

great-grandparents-did. Yvonne had never been a strong believer in visiting the sins of

the fathers upon the children; she preferred to let people's actions stand or fall on their

own merits. The native Gastonians must know of the Empire's existence from their

dealings with the villagers. What did they think, she wondered, of a government that

totally ignored their existence and left them to the mercies of this harsh world solely

because of their ancestors' crimes?

 

One thing was certain: Vonnie planned to have a long talk with Jules about this, and to

stress in her report to the Head that something should be done about this blatantly unfair

situation.

 

She did not discuss the matter with Katanya, though; in her identity as Florence Brecht,

she had no authority to do anything about the problem. She merely questioned the girl as

an interested newcomer to Gastonia, and filed the answers away for future reference.

 

They came at last to the great wall around the garrison, the Empire's only official

presence on this planet. Vonnie had to walk almost a kilometer along the wall's perimeter

before she found what she'd been told was there-the "dispensary" door, the only opening

in the wall through which any of the exiled traitors could pass. Vonnie opened the door

and stepped inside with the wounded girl.

 

The room was small and dimly lit. There were a couple of booths in which patients could

sit facing a trivision screen. There was another door on the opposite side of the room

leading to the interior of the garrison, but there was no knob or any other way for a

patient to open it from this side.

 

A mechanized voice blared out of a hidden speaker in the walls. "Take a seat before the

screen, and state your name and medical problem."

 

Vonnie placed Katanya in one chair and then sat down in the adjacent one. The screen

before her lit up to show a very bored looking nurse seated at a desk. "My name is

Florence Brecht," Vonnie said. "I don't have a problem myself, but I brought someone

who does."

 

The nurse looked at her screen and saw the image of the injured girl. "What's her

name?"

 

"Katanya. No last name."

 

The nurse punched that into her computer and waited for a response. "The records don't

show any prisoner by that name."

 

"That's because she isn't a prisoner. She was born here, and both her parents were born

here. She's a native Gastonian, so she's not on your records. But she is in need of

medical help. She's got a dislocated shoulder and multiple facial bruises and lacerations."

 

The nurse seemed a bit flustered for a moment, wondering what to do, but finally the

healer's instincts in her won out over the bureaucrat. "Have her lean back in the chair as

comfortably as possible and place both her arms on the armrests. I'll do an analysis."

 

Katanya did as requested, and watched on the screen as the nurse inside the garrison

pressed a number of control buttons. The chair was a passive body sensor, capable of

examining a person in it from scalp to sole, taking readings on the major bodily systems.

It was, Vonnie realized, a most ingenious system. It allowed doctors to make diagnoses

of their criminal patients without having to be physically present-and without allowing

prisoners the opportunity to seize a doctor and use him as a hostage in a potential

escape attempt.

 

The sensor system confirmed Vonnie's amateur diagnosis. "Florence Brecht must leave

the diagnostic chamber," the nurse said, "at which time the girl Katanya will be allowed to

enter the dispensary for treatment."

 

"I'd like to wait outside for her," Vonnie said. "About how long will the treatment take?"

 

"Two hours," replied the nurse.

 

Yvonne told her new friend to trust the people here, that they would help her. and that

she herself would be waiting outside if anything went wrong. Then she left the room and

waited outside the wall in the cold evening air. The sun was setting by this time, but the

area was not dark; the expanse of land immediately around the wall was lit as bright as

day to prevent any sneak attacks at night by groups of exiles.

 

She had no way of telling how much time had elapsed, but it did seem less than two

hours later when Katanya emerged again from the dispensary. Her arm was in a sling

and the worst cuts on her face had been bandaged, but she appeared to be in much

better shape than when she'd entered. Her eyes were more alert and she was able to

walk without assistance.

 

She approached Vonnie with a sincere expression of gratitude on her face. "Thank you

very much for all you've done for me," she said. "I won't be going back to the village with

you, though. I have to return to my own people before they leave the area-and maybe

stop them from launching a vendetta against the village for my kidnaping."

 

Vonnie watched the girl walk away until she vanished into the darkness beyond the

well-lit area around the wall. Then, with a shrug, the DesPlainian began to make her own

way home. It would be a rough walk in the dark, and there was a small danger of her

being attacked by some wild animal, but she had been on Gastonia long enough to think

she could face up to any ordinary dangers the planet could offer.

 

She speculated as she walked, though, that every time she thought she understood

Gastonia, something new always popped up like a jack-in-the-box to surprise her.

 

I wonder, she thought, what new surprises are waiting ahead for us.

 

Chapter 9

The Blizzard

 

The next night, as Vonnie was walking home from work, a voice called to her from out of

the shadows. "Gospozha Brecht."

 

Vonnie was instantly suspicious. Vendettas were entirely too common a phenomenon on

Gastonia, and she had beaten Voorhes twice. It would not be one millimeter above the

man's moral level to have her waylaid in some alley. "Yes?" she asked warily.

 

"I'd like to talk with you for a moment." The voice was barely audible, the man behind it

obviously trying to remain secret.

 

"Come out and talk, then. I won't stop you."

 

"You'll have to step into the shadows with me. I have my reasons."

 

"I'll just bet you do."

 

As she peered into the shadows between the buildings, she could see the outlines of the

man's form. He was of medium height and build, far too small to be Voorhes-but that did

not necessarily mean he wasn't sent by Voorhes. Almost as though reading her mind, the

man said, "Voorhes has nothing to do with this. I just want to talk with you."

 

"I suppose you have that notarized in writing."

 

Out of the corners of her eyes, Vonnie could see two men edging slowly toward her from

opposite sides. She braced herself for a fight, but pretended for a moment not to notice

them as the man in the shadows said, "Five minutes of your time is all I ask."

 

"Oh? And what about them?" She pointed suddenly at the men approaching her.

 

As soon as they were aware she'd seen them, they stopped their advance and looked

into the shadows for guidance. The man who'd spoken gave a sharp laugh and said,

"Smooth, boys, you can go. I can handle this myself." Then, to Yvonne, he continued,

"They're just my bodyguards-follow me everywhere. Sometimes they get a little

overeager. What do you say?"

 

Vonnie watched the two men retreat again, and decided to take a chance. "Khorosho,"

she said, walking forward into the shadows. "I'll talk. But only five minutes."

 

Up close, the man was no one she recognized-but with twenty thousand people in the

village, that wasn't peculiar. His face was badly pitted from acne in his youth, and there

was a long knife-scar down the right side of his face.

 

"The word I hear," he said softly, "is that you and Voorhes don't get along."

 

"We've had a few run-ins," Vonnie admitted.

 

"I also hear," the man continued smoothly, "that Tshombase turned you down for a job."

 

Vonnie shrugged, but said nothing.

 

"Let me be blunt, then. I'm not as bigoted as Tshombase is. I'm looking for good people

no matter how long they've been here. From what they tell me, you handle yourself pretty

well. How would you like a job with me?"

 

"Doing what''"

 

The other gave a brief laugh. His laughs were harsh and unpleasant; Vonnie didn't like

them at all.

 

"Let's just say I'm not happy with his administration, and I think it's time we had a change

of government. A clever lady like yourself could rise high in a new regime."

 

So-when she least expected it, here came an offer to join in the midst of intravillage

politics. Vonnie reminded herself that all the exiles here had been convicted of treason,

and therefore had a predilection for games of intrigue and treachery.

 

The plot to overthrow Tshombase would be a dangerous one at best-but if it succeeded,

they would be inside the village's power structure and able to unwrap the mystery

surrounding the escapes from Gastonia. Time was definitely running out before the

Emperor's abdication and Edna's ascension to the Throne; Vonnie knew that she and

Jules would have to do something to force some action.

 

"I'd have to talk it over with my husband," she said after a moment's hesitation. "He and I

work together as a team. You'll either have us both or not at all."

 

"Agreed."

 

"He's off on a hunt right now. He's supposed to be back tomorrow night. We'll discuss it

then and let you know." "Khorosho." The man nodded and began retreating down the

alleyway.

 

"Wait," Vonnie called. "What's your name? How do I get in touch with you again?"

 

"You don't," the man said. "I'll contact you." And he turned a corner and disappeared.

 

Vonnie debated with herself whether she should tail him, but decided against it. If she

should be seen following him he wouldn't trust her, and this promising opportunity would

be lost forever. He wanted her on his side; he'd keep his promise and contact her again.

 

Bundling herself against the wind, she headed for home. There was a bad storm heading

in from the west-and that was the direction where Jules's group had headed. Vonnie

hoped her husband would be safe out there, unprotected from the weather.

 

The storm hit the hunting party in late afternoon, when the teams were scattered out to

search for wallowers. A more prudent hunt leader, seeing the signs of impending trouble,

might not have split up his men with such a gale coming in; but the leader of this

expedition was edgy. They had only caught one wallower in four days of hunting-not a

very impressive record. The men under him were grumbling that the small catch would

mean less money for them, and they were taking their discontent out both on each other

and on him. He looked at the sky and saw the storm clouds gathering, but his

mind-hoping to get in at least one more try this afternoon before heading back to the

village tomorrow-allowed him to miscalculate its effects. He estimated it would be a

weaker storm than it was, and that it was traveling too slowly to reach them before

nightfall. He decided to press his luck and try for one more hunt. The men grumbled; they

too could see the approaching storm-but like their leader, they were hoping they could

catch at least one more wallower before the end of the expedition.

 

The country through which they were traveling was a frozen marsh, a terrain ideally

suited to the wallowers. These were large moose like creatures with enormous sets of

antlers and broad paddle feet to help them in their half-swimming movement through the

mixture of mud and ice that comprised the marsh. Jules's team consisted of himself and

two other men, Phillips and Li. Like the other teams, they had been sent out to look for

wallowers-and if they saw any, they were to herd them into the center of the large circle

encompassed by the hunters, where the group as a whole would bring down the large

creatures.

 

The storm struck them without warning. One moment they were facing a chilly breeze,

typical of almost any afternoon on Gastonia-and the next, they were in the midst of a

raging blizzard, pelted by hailstones the size of marbles and blinded by the fury of the

driving gale that blasted them with a curtain of sleet. The sky grew dark as the sun was

totally obscured by the thick black storm clouds, and there was an ominous rumbling

overhead.

 

"Stay together!" Jules yelled, hoping to make himself heard above the rush of the wind.

"Grab hands, or we'll be separated." He wasn't sure, at first, that the other men had

even heard him-but then, out of the snow, Li grabbed his hand and Jules held on tightly

with an acrobat's grip that was virtually unbreakable. On the other side, he could barely

make out Phillips grabbing Li's hand. The three of them formed a chain, with Jules in the

lead.

 

"We must try to get back to camp," Jules bellowed. Beside him, Li nodded agreement

but Phillips, only slightly more than a meter away, made no reaction-the storm was so

loud he hadn't heard. Nevertheless, Jules started off in the direction of the camp; Li

would tend to the job of pulling Phillips along.

 

They stumbled off through the storm back the way they had come. The hail had given

way quickly to snow, but it was scarcely a relief. The freezing gale went right through the

men's furs, chilling them to the bone. Jules had to squint to keep the wind out of his eyes,

and tiny snowflakes were sticking to the lashes, making it even more difficult to see

where he was going. The stinging cold made his eyes water, and the tears froze on his

cheeks. He kept his gaze steadfastly glued to the ground in front of him; lifting his head

too straight only made the effects of the wind that much worse.

 

Their previous footprints were all but obliterated from the storm, and Jules had nothing

but his own inborn sense of direction to tell him whether he was going the right way. At

this point he wasn't even sure it mattered; there would be little protection even in camp

against a storm this severe. He knew, though, that in a situation like this he had to keep

moving; to stand still, to give in to the blizzard, would be to invite a lonely, frigid death.

Jules had too many things left to do in his life before surrendering it that easily.

 

The ground beneath him was covered by a layer of snow, which in turn was covered by a

thin crust of ice. The men's boots made a crunching sound as they trudged step after

weary step into the teeth of the gale. Jules's eyes were closed almost completely

now-but even had they been wide open, it's doubtful he would have seen the edge of the

marsh, covered over as it was with the same layer of frost as the snow.

 

With one step, instead of his boot sinking through snow to solid ground, it broke through

the ice layer and sank thigh deep into the freezing mud of the fen. Jules toppled off

balance and stumbled forward deeper into the mire, but years of training made him keep

his grip on Li's wrist. As a result he yanked the other two men with him into the frigid

slush of the marsh.

 

The iciness was a shock to his system, but Jules did not panic. He had been warned of

the dangers that dwelled in the marsh-the animals that swam beneath the surface,

feeding on one another and on the occasional land creature that was lured into the mud.

Most of them would not attack anything the size of a man, but Jules had no intention of

placing temptation in their path. He wanted to get out as quickly as possible.

 

He thrashed around for a few seconds, trying to get his feet planted firmly on the bottom.

The two men behind him were not helping matters. The sudden fall into the fen had

frightened them, and they were acting on sheer instinct, flailing helplessly about with their

arms and distracting Jules from the concentration he needed to think his way out.

 

The coldness seeped right through his skin, numbing the muscle tissue beneath. Jules

was beginning to lose all feeling below the waist; even if there weren't any creatures

living in the marsh he would still want to get out of it quickly to avoid the possibility of

frostbite.

 

He regained his sense of direction and tried to walk back toward the shore. The muck

around him clung to his legs, holding him back; each step was like walking through

molasses. His leg muscles, born to resist the pull of a three-gravity planet, were up to

the task as he dragged his two companions along with him; a lesser man might not have

made it.

 

In four steps he was back at the edge of solid ground. Li, still confused but less panicky,

was right behind him, and Phillips still clung at the end of the train. Jules grabbed at the

ground, trying for a handhold, and found a large rock to serve as anchor. He started to

pull himself up when suddenly the load behind him seemed lighter. At the same moment,

there was a scream that pierced even the roar of the wind.

 

Phillips had let go of Li's wrist and was now standing hip deep in the frigid marsh. "I can't

move!" he shouted. "Something's got me!" Jules could not see anything attacking Phillips

from where he was, and he knew that any sensation below the man's waist would be

faint at most. Perhaps it was true that some marsh creature had attacked him, or

perhaps his leg was merely tangled in some underwater plant. It was impossible to tell.

 

The important thing was that Phillips believed he'd been attacked. He started beating at

the mud around him frantically in an attempt to chase off whatever creature it might be

and, at the same time, thrashing about wildly in an attempt to break free of its grip. All

his actions accomplished was to make him lose his balance in the slippery mud. He fell

forward onto his face, and for a moment he was completely submerged. He lifted himself

out of the muck once more, sputtering for breath, but his brief immersion only served to

panic him further. He was twisting and shaking his right leg, trying to free it from

whatever obstacle had snagged it. His screams of terror alternated with his gasping for

air.

 

Jules wanted to help, but there was little he could do. He dared not let go of his rock, or

he himself would slip back into the marsh; if there was indeed a creature attacking

Phillips, it might decide to go after Jules and Li next. The DesPlainian could only watch

helplessly as his terrified companion struggled wildly in the mud behind him. Three more

times Phillips fell, and each time he managed to come back up for air-though it was for a

shorter duration each time. And once more Phillips sunk below the mud. This time he

didn't come up. A hand splashed around, breaking the surface of the mire and waving

about, then it too disappeared. There were a few bubbles, and then all was still.

 

Jules pulled himself the rest of the way onto land, with Li dragging along behind him. The

SOTE agent was feeling sick over his inability to save his comrade's life. He barely knew

Phillips, just a nodding acquaintance, but even so Jules would have liked to help him. The

fact that Phillips had been sent here for treason against the Empire was small

consolation; no one, Jules felt, deserved to die that way.

 

He forced the thought from his mind. There were two of them still alive, and the storm

had not abated in the slightest. His legs felt a million parsecs away, both numb and tired

from the ordeal in the marsh, but he didn't dare rest; at the rate the snow was falling

now, he could be covered up completely in just a couple of minutes. They would have to

keep moving once more.

 

He pulled Li unceremoniously to his feet. The other hunter complained that he was too

tired, but Jules refused to listen. He had lost one companion because he'd been unable

to act; he was not going to lose a second. Roughly he yanked on Li's arm, and the man

had no choice but to stagger along behind him.

 

The blizzard was swirling around them, mocking them, making it impossible to see more

than half a meter in front of them. Jules kept his eyes to the ground, both to keep the

driving snow out and to prevent another misstep into the marsh. He had no idea where

they were headed, nor did he care. His chief concern was to keep them in motion, to

keep the blood circulating, to prevent frostbite if at all possible. He didn't know how long

a storm could last on Gastonia, but he knew it wouldn't be forever; if he and Li could

weather the worst of the blizzard, they could orient themselves when the air was calmer

and find their way back to the village somehow.

 

His toes could have been completely gone for all he could feel them, and even his feet

were only vague rumors below his ankles. His leg muscles were accustomed to pushing

him around at three times the current gravitational level, but even so they were protesting

this mistreatment. Mud and ice were caked on his pants; the wet material was shrinking

against his thighs, biting them with a chill that threatened to deaden all sensation. And still

he forced himself onward, placing one foot before the other in an endless series of

plodding steps.

 

The minutes dragged by and became an hour, then two. The blizzard continued to rage,

stinging like needles against their skin. Each individual snowflake seemed to hit with the

impact of a cannonball, and for all the protection their coats gave them they might as well

have been naked. Li, being from a normal gravity planet, was having a much harder time

keeping up with the pace Jules had set; he stumbled several times and the DesPlainian

had to yank him bodily to his feet. But despite Li's panting, despite his protests, despite

his repeated pleas to stop for a rest, Jules pressed relentlessly on, fighting his own

fatigue with a superhuman effort.

 

Finally Li collapsed behind him, and no amount of shaking him or slapping his face could

revive him. Jules stood over the other man's body for a moment, clenching his fists with

hopeless frustration. A quick memory flashed through his mind, the image of Phillips

sinking into the marsh for the last time while Jules had to stand by helplessly and watch

his comrade die. He did not want to let it happen again.

 

Bending over awkwardly in his heavy furs, he lifted Li up and draped him over his

shoulders like a stole. The combined weight was still less than Jules was used to back

home, but nonetheless it was an added strain on the DesPlainian's already overtaxed

muscles. The snow was piled waist deep in some places, resisting his every effort to

move, but Jules plowed ahead with the typical d'Alembert stubbornness and a refusal to

surrender.

 

As quickly as it had come, the blizzard stopped-and so numbed were Jules's senses that

he continued slogging along for a couple of minutes before he even realized it. The snow

stopped falling, and the wind died to nothing, leaving behind a silence so profound that it

became a ringing in Jules's ears, the dying echo of what once had been. The sky

overhead was still dark with clouds, but over on the western horizon the clouds were

parting and the red rays of the setting sun pierced the gloom. The air was crisp and cold,

and perfectly clear with a visibility extending for kilometers. Jules put down his burden for

a moment and just stood, exhilarating in the clean, fresh air.

 

After the initial surge of triumph at surviving the storm, he returned to more practical

matters. He and Li were separated from the main hunting party, without supplies or

transportation back to the village. The storm might not be completely over; this could be

merely a temporary lull before the full fury returned. Night would be upon them soon as

well. He had best make preparations accordingly.

 

When he turned around to scout the immediate area, he saw it. There, high up on the top

of a hill, its walls reflecting the dying sunset rays, was a large house. It was nothing

spectacular as houses go-but on Gastonia, anything that was neither a prefab but nor a

crude wooden shack could be considered a mansion. It was three stories tall, with walls

of brick, stone and timber, and it stood imperiously on its hilltop looking down on the

valley in which Jules stood, as though it knew it was the grandest edifice on this world

outside the Governor's garrison.