THE PURITY PLOT

 

Volume six of The classic Family d'Alembert series

 

By E.E. 'Doc' Smith

With Stephen Goldin

 

 

Chapter 1

The Glasseye Gang

 

The planet Glasseye was named for its appearance from space. Tuan Ho, the

scoutship pilot who discovered it, remembered his initial impression in an interview with

Imperial Newsworks Reelzine: "I came out of subspace and there it was, staring straight

at me=a large blue green ball with that one dark continent in the center. It looked for all

the universe like a glass eye being displayed on a piece of black velvet, with the stars

as a background to lend effect to the scene."

 

Since that discovery in 2374, the planet had been well explored and colonized, and its

name took on an extra significance. The one major continent was found to contain rich

deposits of a fine silicate mineral called fargerite, after its discoverer-that occurred

nowhere else in the galaxy; furthermore, this silicate produced some of the finest glass

ever made. "Glasseye glass" became renowned throughout the Empire, and no one

with any pretensions to culture would feel his collection of objets d'art complete without

several pieces. Producing, blowing, and exporting the glass became the planet's

leading industries, and the entire world thrived, basking in the glow of its reputation. So

abundant was the fargerite that the Glasseyers even used it as a construction material

for building their cities. When combined and fired in the proper way, it became a

substance stronger than steel, with the added advantage that it was more easily

recyclable. If one tired of it in one form, one could melt it down and reshape it into

something else with a minimum of trouble.

 

Glasseye cities therefore looked like fairy towers of crystalline perfection. Glass needles

rose into the sky, their walls refracting the sunlight into a million rainbow patterns. Glass

latticeworks connected the city in a transportation system of small, high-speed shuttles

that whisked people wherever they chose to go in a matter of minutes. The cities

presented an ever-changing face, as old portions were constantly being melted down

and replaced with newer, more modern-looking sections. Transience became ingrained

into the planetary character of the Glasseyers themselves; there was a joke common

throughout the Empire about a starving Glasseyer who was given a bowl of apples,

pears, and grapes, but died before he ate any-he was not quite satisfied with the

arrangement of the fruit in the bowl!

 

Visitors flocked to Glasseye from all over the galaxy to observe the breathtaking beauty

of Glasseyer cities. Tourism was Glasseye's second largest industry; the planet

represented an almost perfect visual paradise. But even paradise has its problems.

 

The group of masked figures had little trouble breaking into the new Imperial Trade

Tower in Southbeach City. This tower, the latest in a series of new buildings to house

the local arm of the imperial administration, was not scheduled to open officially for

another week, during which final checks of the wiring and plumbing were completed.

There were only two guards stationed at the building's base, and they hadn't been

expecting any trouble. The party of invaders blasted them in cold blood, then continued

with their mission.

 

The leader checked the elevator tube and found it in workable condition. He and his

friends got in and rose quickly to the upper stories. The Imperial Trade Tower had been

designed like an enormous tulip about to blossom, with the bulb beginning a full thirty

stories above ground level. The intruders got off at the thirty-fourth floor and spread out.

Each of the eight team members planted his explosive charge in one of the offices

around the floor's perimeter, then returned to the central shaft. They went up the tube

four more floors. So far, everything had gone according to their plans, but now they ran

into something they had not counted on: people.

 

As it happened, this brand-new building, a showcase of Glasseyer architecture and

design, had attracted the interest of Lord Hok Fu-Choy, nephew of Grand Duke TChen

who owned Sector Seventeen in which Glasseye was located. Lord Hok had requested

a personal inspection while he was here on Glasseye, and Baron William of

Southbeach was most happy to consent. During the day though, the building was still

swarming with construction workers, and it would be hard for Lord Hok to observe it in

its proper form. Also, the Baron promised, Lord Hok would get a splendid nighttime view

of the panorama of Southbeach City if he came up here after hours. Lord Hok agreed to

a nighttime tour.

 

Neither Baron William nor his guest had expected to encounter any trouble in an

uncompleted building during an unannounced visit. Each man only had one

escort-bodyguard with him-wholly inadequate, it turned out, for the situation they found

themselves facing.

 

It would have been hard to say which side was more surprised at seeing the other

there, but the invaders who'd been prepared for anything that might happen-recovered

first. Being well armed, they drew their guns to kill the strangers, and they would have,

but the leader recognized the Baron and Lord Hok. Making a snap decision, he ordered

his followers to take them alive.

 

The escorts fought well, and managed to burn down two of their attackers, but they

were hopelessly outnumbered. In the end, they lay dead on the floor while the two

noblemen looked on, helpless. The saboteurs took their prisoners and set the

remainder of their explosive charges. Then, herding their captives into the elevator

tubes, they descended once more to the ground level and to the shuttle prepared for

their escape.

 

They pushed Lord Hok into the craft first. The young nobleman resented this brusque

treatment and, despite the guns that were trained on him, he began a brief struggle. His

attempt did not last long, as one of his captors hit him soundly across the face with the

butt of a blaster, but the minor scuffle did give Baron William a chance to break free of

the men who were holding him. Before any of the invaders knew quite what had

happened, the Baron was running down the transit tube into the darkness. A couple of

the men started after him, but they were called back by their leader. Their time was

running out; they dared not waste any by chasing the fleeing man. They still had one

captive after all, and a very important one at that. Headquarters would approve highly of

what they'd done; there was no need to endanger themselves further.

 

The shuttle with the six surviving invaders and their hostage sped away from the

Imperial Trade Tower at top speed. Baron William arrived back at the scene ten

minutes later, accompanied by a squad of police, but by that time it was too late. Within

another five minutes, the "bulb" of the tower blew apart, scattering shards of glass for

kilometers in all directions.

 

The Head of the Service of the Empire was greatly disturbed by this latest incident of

anti-imperialist terrorism. His organization was charged with the awesome task of

maintaining the security of an empire that was spread out over more than thirteen

hundred worlds. And that job, never an easy one under the best of circumstances, had

only been getting harder of late.

 

Maybe I'm starting to feel my age, he thought, but the last two years have really been

downhill.

 

Not that Zander von Wilmenhorst was that old; at just under fifty he was only now

reaching the absolute prime of his mental capacities. But the responsibility of his

position would age anyone quickly. And the more dedicated he became, the more

seriously he took his duties, which only made him feel older.

 

He had thought, many months ago, that the breakup of Banion's well-organized plot

against the Empire would be the peak of his career, that everything following it would be

an anticlimax. To some extent that was true, but it was not the way he had expected.

Little things kept popping up, almost trivial in and of themselves, but they had been

taking unexpectedly large bites of the Service's time and energy. He had fought off the

wolf named Banion-mostly through the talents of his two most capable agents-but now

he found the Empire plagued by mosquitoes. And he could not help but recall that it

was mosquitoes that carried the germs of malaria.

 

Acts of terrorism were on the increase. The seeds of discontent were sprouting on

planets in every sector of the Empire, with a violence which was unexpectedly strong

considering the mild and peaceful reign of Emperor Stanley Ten. Everywhere, groups of

malcontents were springing up, chanting slogans for the abolition of the Empire and the

destruction of the nobility. For the most part, the groups were led by honest, sincere

people who believed in autonomy for their own planets without regard for the larger

picture of interstellar relations.

 

Von Wilmenhorst could not fault the people for their sincere, if misguided, patriotism;

the simple fact of the matter was that a strong, central concept such as the Empire of

Earth was necessary to prevent countless interplanetary wars between rival worlds, and

the deaths of untold trillions of human beings.

 

The localized insurrections themselves bothered him little, if at all; they were on a scale

that the planetary authorities could reasonably handle. But his shrewd mind detected a

pattern behind the sudden rise of these problems-and patterns were what he was most

suspicious of.

 

There's a pattern behind every major movement in the galaxy, he thought. Find the

pattern and you're halfway to finding the solution.

 

He had on his desk a series of charts, correlating the growth of terrorist movements. If

this had been a medical situation, he would have called it an epidemic. So far, 647

worlds had anti-imperial, terrorist gangs of serious strength, and there was no telling

how many more were in the process of formation as he sat and considered the

problem. It would be more understandable if Stanley Ten were a harsh, tyrannical ruler,

as some of his predecessors had been; people had a natural tendency, after a while, to

rebel against such oppression. But, on the contrary, Stanley Ten's reign had been one

of the most enlightened since the Empire was formed and, after forty-six years, would

soon be coming to a close anyway. While it was not generally known, Stanley Ten

planned to abdicate in six months in favor of his daughter Edna ...

 

With that thought, a major piece of the jigsaw puzzle fell into place in his mind. Stanley

Ten was not the target. Whoever was masterminding this operation was biding his time,

building his power slowly, sapping the Empire's strength with a million tiny brush fires.

The real conflagration would come during the changeover, when everyone was in a

natural state of confusion anyway. The Empire would be in the hands of a young

woman who, while possessing many of the strengths that so characterized her father,

was not as experienced as he at dealing with crises. There was more possibility that

she, through simple inexperience, would make the fatal slip that would bring about the

downfall of the Stanley reign, and possibly of the entire Empire.

 

With the concept of nefarious conspiracies, his thoughts naturally turned to Lady A, the

mysterious woman who seemed to be lurking behind so many of them. She had

managed to infiltrate the Service itself, and von Wilmenhorst still did not know how. She

was a guiding force behind the insidious humanoid robots; two of which had already

come too close to wreaking their havoc on the Empire. She'd managed the planet

Sanctuary, building up a constituency of the best criminal talent in the galaxy. She was

involved with a gang of space pirates and was amassing a space fleet for purposes

unknown. And she'd come within a hairbreadth of pulling off the galaxy's most daring

coup, at the wedding of Crown Princess Edna.

 

All of her plans, with the exception of the leak from within the Service itself, had been

thwarted by the timely actions of his agents, but that did not make the Head feel any

more secure. We've stopped all of her plans that we know about, he corrected himself.

How many more machinations are developing that we may not discover until too late?

Lady A is a very busy woman.

 

Along with the incidents of terrorism, space piracy had also been on the rise in the last

year or so; Lady A had already demonstrated one connection with that, and there might

be others. Somewhere, there had to be a weapons stockpile, some central source

supplying these various groups with the arms they needed to conduct their battles.

Somewhere, two more-at least-of those deadly robots were engaged in their missions

of undermining the Empire. Somewhere, lurking even further in the background, was

the person known only as C, the still more enigmatic partner of the mysterious Lady A.

Somewhere ...

 

Zander von Wilmenhorst ran a hand over his smooth-shaven scalp in frustration. There

were mysteries within mysteries, and so little time to unravel them all. His insight that

events would culminate at the coronation of Edna as Empress Stanley Eleven gave him

a target date to shoot for-but it was so soon. And the enemy had the natural advantage

of knowing his plans as well as its own.

 

Somewhere, a clock was ticking off the seconds left to the Empire, and unless he could

think of something, those seconds would be pitifully few in number.

 

With a massive effort of will, the Head pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind.

Despite the fact of the larger plots against the throne, there were still the everyday

details of imperial security that needed tending. At present, the kidnaping of Lord Hok

by the rebels on Glasseye was primary.

 

Turning on his own private subcom set, he punched in the secret identity number that

was known to only a few select people in the entire galaxy. Within just a few minutes, a

face appeared within the three-dimensional communicator screen-the face of von

Wilmenhorst's old friend, Duke Etienne d'Alembert.

 

Etienne was obviously glad to see his comrade, but at the same time his expression

was one of serious concern. The Head of SOTE rarely had the time to make purely

social calls, particularly to the secret subcom number. There was bound to be trouble

somewhere. "Bonjour, mon ami," he said. "What's the problem?"

 

Briefly, the Head explained the circumstances surrounding the capture of Lord Hok by

terrorists on Glasseye the previous night. "It doesn't appear to have been a planned

event," he said, "but you can bet the rebels will make use of it nonetheless. We're

expecting a list of demands momentarily."

 

"All of them impossible, no doubt."

 

"Even if they only asked twenty kopeks, the price would be too high. It would be a signal

to the entire galaxy for a new escalation of these terrorist attacks. I'm already certain

there's an Empire-wide conspiracy linking them all together; if this kidnaping tactic,

accidental though it was this first time, should succeed, no nobleman or political official

will ever be safe. We've got to crush this threat so thoroughly, and with such

determination, that it won't be tried again."

 

Etienne d'Alembert nodded. "And that, I suppose, is where the circus comes in?"

 

"Exactly. Ordinarily I would consider something like this inside the jurisdiction of local

police officials, with the Service sending along a liaison officer as an observer. But

Grand Duke T'Chen is as cantankerous as ever, and he's been screaming for SOTE to

get his nephew out of there. As a grand duke he is entitled to such considerations. Also,

as I said, I want to make an example of this for the rest of the terrorists to note, so I

want to unleash my top weapon at them: you and your family."

 

Duke Etienne smiled at the compliment. "How thorough an example should I create?"

 

The Head returned the smile. "Lord Hok must be returned to his uncle alive and as

unharmed as the rebels have left him. Anything beyond that, I'll leave to your own

discretion."

 

"Ah. I am nothing if not discreet." The Duke's smile broadened into a positively

carnivorous expression. "I suppose, though, it would be prudent to leave a few of the

scum in a condition to answer further questions."

 

"Yes, please."

 

"Time will be a bit of a problem. I'm on Dorlan at the moment. Even breaking off our

next three days' engagements and altering our schedule, it would stilt take us about five

days to reach Glasseye-and once we're there, it'll take a little time to develop our battle

plans."

 

Von Wilmenhorst nodded. "I know. I've instructed our local chief to stall, play along with

them, pretend to consider their demands until he hears from you. He knows he's to give

you his fullest cooperation once you arrive, so you should have no problems. And I'll

beam you further reports on the situation as it develops while you're en route."

 

"We're on our way," Duke Etienne said curtly, and the screen on the subcom set went

blank as he broke the connection. The Head smiled confidently. It felt good to be able

to do something positive, and handing a problem to a d'Alembert was as good as

solving it.

 

He turned back to the stacks of material cluttering his desk. They were in neat piles of

varying degrees of urgency. Unfortunately, the "very urgent" pile was still entirely too

high for his liking. With a sigh, he reached for the next report from the top of that stack.

 

It happened to be a summary of the situation on the planet Purity, reported by Marask

Kantana, one of his ablest aides. As he read, it became increasingly clear to him that

his need for d'Alembert help was far from over.

 

Chapter 2

The Silent Sortie

 

The Circus of the Galaxy was one of the Empire's top attractions, wherever it played.

Even in an era of sophisticated electronic communications, there was something so

elemental about the circus's appeal that it always drew vast throngs to its

performances. It was basic entertainment-people executing unbelievable feats with

seemingly effortless abandon. Audiences never ceased to marvel at the wonders

performed before their eyes.

 

Duke Etienne d'Alembert, manager of the Empire's premier attraction, never allowed his

acts to be filmed, televised or recorded for sensable shows. In this way, he created an

aura of mystery and originality about his troupe that no one else had been able to

duplicate. He relied heavily on word-of-mouth advertising to bring the crowds, and he

was seldom disappointed at the results.

 

But there was another, deeper reason why the crafty duke refused all offers to

broadcast his show to the multitudes, despite the phenomenal amounts of money

offered. The Circus of the Galaxy-meaning, in essence, the Family d'Alembert-was one

of SOTE's strongest and most secret weapons. The talents of this remarkable family, all

originally from the heavy-grav world of DesPlaines, had been called upon time and

again for secret missions, much like the one that now took them to Glasseye. Making

the faces Aid names of the d'Alembert clan members easily recognizable by the general

public would end their ability to do the Empire's work in secret.

 

Duke Etienne had long cultivated a reputation for eccentricity. He was likely to cancel

the circus's appearances at a moment's notice to play at some other distant planet

halfway across the Empire, and yet, the circus was so popular that it was always

welcome, no matter how strange were the whims of its manager.

 

Thus, no one was particularly surprised when the circus abruptly pulled up its stakes

from its successful appearance on Dorlan, canceled its last three days' shows, and took

off for Glasseye. Dorlan's loss was Glasseye's gain, as far as most of the citizens of

either planet ever knew.

 

Immediately upon landing on Glasseye, while the majority of his people set about their

routine tasks of putting the show together, Duke Etienne received a briefing from the

planetary chief of SOTE on the situation regarding the kidnappers. Duke Etienne wore

a disguise while meeting with the chief, a man named Bergen, so that he could not be

positively identified; if Bergen bothered to correlate the arrival of this special agent with

the arrival of the circus on Glasseye, he was discreet enough never to mention it to

anyone.

 

The past four and a half days had been ones of strident demands from the terrorist

organization and seemingly abject capitulation on the part of the authorities. Only by

looking closely could it be seen that the planetary officials had not given anything away,

but were merely stalling for time. The rebels demanded that imperial taxes be

distributed to impoverished citizens of Glasseye; very well, said the officials, just give us

a little time to convert it into cash. The rebels demanded that imperial military installa-

 

tions be removed from the planet; very well, the officials said, but the movement of so

much equipment and personnel required time and involved orders. The rebels

demanded that the Empire pay "reparations" for all the harm it had cost Glasseye

during the tyranny; very well, the officials said, it will just take a little time to total up the

cost.

 

The rebels demanded, the officials promised. And always the fulfillment of the promise

was just a little way over the horizon.

 

In the meantime, the local arm of SOTE had been doing some work of its own. One

member of the terrorist force, who had been hit and left for dead during the attack on

the Imperial Trade Tower, had managed to survive, and was taken to a hospital and

given the best medical treatment Glasseye's doctors could provide. His name was

Peaks and, the instant the doctors pronounced him fit enough, he was placed under

intensive interrogation by the local SOTE experts. Using every trick at their disposal

short of nitrobarb-which his system would not have been able to stand-they pried from

him all the information he knew about where the gang made its headquarters, how

many people were stationed there, and what the defensive setup was like. The local

Service officers took no action themselves, though; they waited, as they'd been ordered

to do, for the arrival of the special force.

 

Now that the promised reinforcements had arrived, Bergen had a complete breakdown

all prepared. The rebels were camped in a largely uninhabited section of the continent,

a dense, tropical jungle near a small mountain range. There was only one way into the

camp; mountains protected its back and one flank, while a swift-flowing river guarded

the other side. The one way in was constantly guarded by foot patrols at irregular

intervals. In addition, automatic sensors scanned the area for indications of metal or

high energy sources, such as powered blasters. All told, there were better than a

hundred people within the camp, and most of them would now be on the alert. They

knew SOTE would make some kind of attempt to get the hostage back, and the rebels

would be ready.

 

Peaks had not been back to the camp since the night of the raid, so he had no way of

knowing whether any special precautions had been instituted for the situation, nor did

he know where the prisoner was being kept. The SOTE strategical officers hazarded a

guess that Lord Hok might be in the' central headquarters hut, but nothing could be said

for certain. The attack forces would have to find that out for themselves once they'd

penetrated their target.

 

Etienne thanked Bergen for all his help and advice, then returned to the circus for a

strategy meeting with his brother Marcel. Between them, these two experienced agents

came up with what they hoped was a successful plan to smash the rebel base and get

the hostage out alive.

 

The Phase I attack group consisted of ten people. Eight of them were members of the

aerialist team that performed death-defying acrobatics under the big tent several times

a day. The ninth was Jean d'Alembert, a cocky-looking man with a black moustache,

long sideburns tinged with gray, and a knowing leer on his face. He was the circus's

knife thrower, and one of its more outspoken, flamboyant members-but, like all the

d'Alemberts, he could be counted on in a fight.

 

The leader of the team was to be Luise deForrest, Duke Etienne's niece, who had done

such a superb job of leading an assault group against Rimskor Castle on Kolokov.

Luise was one of the circus's most promising young clowns and was blessed with an

agile body and incisive mind. She had her long, black hair tied up in braids for this

mission, and, like the others in the group, she wore a dark, forest green jump suit to

help her blend in better with the jungle foliage around the rebel camp. She carried a

small wicker cage strapped to her back; around her waist was a utility belt which, like

the belts on the rest of her party, contained various handy nonmetallic tools. They

carried nothing that would attract the attention of the metal detectors scanning the

entrance to the camp.

 

The party was driven in large trucks to the approximate area, as close as they dared

take motorized vehicles without risking discovery. They were still a good seven

kilometers from the camp's reported position.

 

There they got out of the trucks and mounted a group of trained marponies. These were

equine animals from the planet Zachari, smaller, faster, smarter and less

temperamental than horses. The dense underbrush hampered the marponies'

movements considerably, but they still made good time and carried their riders to a spot

less than a kilometer from the terrorist base in half an hour. The d'Alemberts tied and

muzzled their mounts and continued the rest of the way on their own.

 

Traveling along the ground would be dangerous here. According to Peaks' information,

this area was patrolled at irregular intervals, making it impossible to be sure of escaping

detection. The whole point of this mission was utter secrecy; if so much as a single

warning of their existence were to reach the terrorists, Lord Hok's life would be forfeit.

 

Therefore, the d'Alemberts scorned the ground and took instead to the treetops. In the

dim, late-evening light they scrambled from tree to tree with an agility that would have

put monkeys to shame. The density of the jungle was now an asset, because it assured

them of adequate holds for getting between the trees. Only on two occasions was there

any gap not bridged sufficiently by tree branches; in those cases, ropes were thrown

across the gulf and used as high wires. Not once during the passage did a d'Alembert

foot touch the ground.

 

Luise and Jean were less adept at tree-walking than were the other eight, and they

slowed the party down a bit. Speed was not the absolute requirement in this mission,

however; stealth counted more heavily. The specialized talents of the two would be

useful later, and their more agile relatives tolerated their comparative clumsiness.

 

Three times, guard patrols of two to five people passed beneath their position. During

those moments, the d'Alemberts held perfectly still, waiting for the patrols to move on.

They could easily have overpowered the guards if they'd chosen, but Luise decided

against that course of action. If even one guard should escape, of merely cry out in

alarm, the whole mission would be a failure. Similarly, if any of the patrols were missed

by their comrades, the d'Alemberts' job would become much harder. It was better to

show restraint now than to regret it later.

 

After an hour's careful treetop march, they came to the small clearing where the

enemy's camp was located. Crude, wooden huts had been set up as living quarters for

most of the rebels, with one large shack in the central area serving as their planning

headquarters. In addition, three large caves had been dug into the sides of the

mountains against which the camp was built. These caves, according to Peaks, were

used mainly for storing supplies, to keep them dry from the periodic heavy rains.

 

Luise had a choice. The local SOTE chief thought it most probable that Lord Hok was

being kept in the central headquarters building, but Luise could not completely rule out

the possibility that the young nobleman was being housed in one of the caves, which

would be more easily guarded. There were two people stationed in front of each of the

caves, while six surrounded the headquarters building. There was no easy way to make

the choice.

 

After a moment's consideration Luise decided to investigate the caves first because

they would, in some ways, be the easiest to check. She whispered her plans to her

colleagues, and the group moved around the perimeter of the camp through the trees,

to the point closest to the cave entrances.

 

At this point, the mission's success rested with Jean d'Alembert. As the knife thrower,

he was the only one of the group to bring along any large supply of weapons. A few of

the knives he had were plastic, but most were hastily improvised wooden ones. They

were all, however, extremely sharp.

 

His task would not be an easy one. He had six targets, six guards at the cave

entrances. The nearest were five meters away, the furthest almost twenty-five. He had

to put each one out of commission without allowing any of them to make a noise-which

meant a knife to the throat of each one, in rapid succession. It was now early evening,

with only the light from various campfires to illuminate his targets. The knives he would

be throwing were not the ones he was used to, and the balance would be a little

different. All these were factors he had to allow for.

 

If Jean d'Alembert was nervous, he did not show it. He was a natural-born

grandstander, and he was used to having lives riding on the accuracy of his aim: the

target models in his act were his own wife, Bernadette, and his children Jacques and

Marie. He was not accustomed to missing.

 

He was now the picture of concentration as he crouched on the tree branch, looking

down on the peaceful scene in the camp. One knife was in his right hand, five more

held in readiness in his left. With a seemingly effortless flick of his wrist, he released the

blade toward its target and, as part of the same motion, he flipped another blade from

his left to his right hand, ready to throw again. One after another, the knives flashed out

from the trees, a smooth operation performed with machine precision. In a matter of

five seconds, all six guards lay dead, without a sound to mark their passing but the

gentle whoosh of Jean d'Alembert's knives slicing air.

 

With the sentries out of the way, Luise dropped to the ground, followed by the rest of

her group. They approached the first cave cautiously. Jean retrieved his knives from the

two sentries who'd been keeping watch here, then led the way inside. Luise was barely

half a step behind him. Four of the aerialists accompanied them, while the other four

stood guard outside in case of trouble.

 

There were three more of the rebels sitting around a fire inside the cave, but they barely

had time to look up and see the approaching force before the d'Alemberts were upon

them. Jean finished two of them off with quick flicks of his knives; Luise got the third by

wrapping a cord around his neck and twisting it, garrote fashion. The rest of the cave

merely held crates of provisions for the hundred-person camp. With a shrug, Luise led

her team outside to try again.

 

The other two caves proved to be virtual repeats of the first-a couple of people

stationed inside each guarding supplies of various sorts, but no sign of Lord Hok. The

initial estimate, then, was probably right. Luise led her team back outside and up into

the trees once more. They would try their next attack against the headquarters building.

 

This time speed was a vital factor. It was only a matter of time before the dead cave

sentries were discovered, and then the general alarm would be raised. There could be

no wasted motions now; Lord Hok must be found and freed immediately.

 

There were six men stationed around the headquarters shack, some on the opposite

side of the building, thus making it impossible for even Jean to get all of them. The rest

of the assault team, having waited patiently while their relatives stole the show, now

had their own chance to get into the act. While Jean eliminated the nearest two guards

with his knives, the gymnastic team was flying through the air with a precision that had

made them all famous throughout the galaxy. They landed lightly on their feet and

continued their motion toward their preassigned targets. They outnumbered the

remaining guards two to one, which, for d'Alemberts, were laughable odds. They took

the sentries out easily, and again, they were so efficient that there was no sound to

alert the camp. Luise took a deep breath. It had been easy, so far; from this point on,

things would move a lot faster.

 

Knife in hand, she walked boldly up to the door and knocked. "Who's there?" a voice

asked from inside. Luise spoke in a low tone, slurring her words so the person inside

could not understand her. "Just a minute," the voice said.

 

Luise could hear the rasping sound of the lock, and a moment later the door swung

inward just a crack. That was enough for her. She pushed forward against the door,

shoving it completely open. The man who'd opened it was pushed backward, a startled

expression on his face. The expression was frozen there permanently as Luise's knife

came up under his ribs and he fell, dead, to the floor.

 

Behind her, Jean also rushed in, knives in hand. As he gave a quick glance around the

room and sized up the situation, his blades flashed through the air, and three more of

the terrorists lay dead on the floor. And still there had not been enough noise to arouse

the concern of anyone in the adjacent rooms.

 

They could not expect their luck to hold much longer. Taking this building room by room

would be an arduous and risky project; instead, they would split up and try to hit the

entire building simultaneously.

 

This entry room opened into a hallway that ran the length of the building, with five other

rooms further down. The rest of her team entered the shack and, at her whispered

command, glided softly down the corridor. When they were all in position, two to each

door, Luise signaled and they burst into their target rooms.

 

The action was short and silent. Once more, surprise had worked in their favor, and

they were able to finish off their opponents without any harm to themselves. Lord Hok

was found tied to a chair in the third room down. He'd been badly beaten and drugged,

but he was alive and had apparently suffered no permanent damage.

 

Had she the time, Luise would have let out a great sigh of relief. But Lord Hok was in no

condition to go swinging through the treetops with them, and they couldn't risk carrying

him. Fortunately, Duke Etienne's plans had allowed for such a contingency; rather than

going out the way they had come in, Luise inaugurated Phase II of the battle plan.

 

From the tiny wicker cage strapped to her back, Luise took a small, white bird with red

speckles. She walked to a window, opened it, and tossed the bird out into the night.

The bird, a sporinger, flapped its wings in confusion a couple of times, stretching and

exercising them after its long confinement. Then, testing its newfound freedom, it

soared upward into the darkened sky. Within seconds it was gone from Luise's view,

but she could imagine it with wings outstretched, floating on a convenient updraft,

spiraling above the camp in ever-widening circles. The sporinger's keen nose would be

sniffing the air, searching for some scent of its mate. Sporingers were animals that

mated for life, and their sense of smell was so acute that they were able to detect their

mates at distances of up to fifteen kilometers. Once this sporinger caught wind of its

mate, which was back with the rest of the d'Alembert assault team, it would fly directly

there, signaling to the others a beginning for Phase II.

 

With the sporinger gone, there was nothing left for the primary team to do but wait.

Luise assigned four of her relatives to stay with Lord Hok, guarding him against any

intrusion, while she and the rest of the team spread out through the building, in case of

trouble.

 

Five minutes passed, then five more. Outside, the camp was still miraculously quiet.

She could hear the sounds of laughter and arguments in the barracks a few dozen

meters away, and the occasional voices of people calling to one another across the

compound. The d'Alembert luck held; no one had yet discovered the bodies of the

guards the family had killed on their way in.

 

Then, however, a new sound began to make itself known, like a sudden, strong wind

springing up from nowhere. From far away, it suddenly hit the camp like a hurricane,

rattling the ramshackle buildings and scattering small, loose objects around the

clearing. The sky, which had been clear, suddenly darkened as an enormous shape

blotted out the stars. Then it seemed as though a three-story building landed on the

camp.

 

In actuality, it was a roc. The name of the giant, mythical Arabian bird had been given to

these creatures from the planet Bahrein, and it was certainly a title well deserved. The

roc were the largest flying animals ever discovered in the galaxy, averaging ten meters

long with a wingspan of nearly sixty. They were covered with a tough, bluish skin, and

possessed four sets of talons and a sharp, rending beak that could tear apart

something the size of a rhinoceros without difficulty. They were surprisingly lightweight

for their size-only four hundred and fifty kilos-but had been known to carry off prey that

was more than half their own weight.

 

Rocs were rarely seen in captivity. There were only fifty-seven scattered throughout the

major zoos in the Empire. The circus had only acquired this specimen two years ago,

after many years of bargaining with the Duke of Bahrein. It had gone immediately into

the care of the circus's prime animal trainer, the petite-for a DesPlainian-Jeanne

d'Alembert. The frail-looking -eighteen-year-old Jeanne was totally dwarfed by her

charge. Yet, her aura of calm and her psychic attunement to animals of all sorts was

such that she had slowly worked even this monstrous creature under her spell. While it

was not yet domesticated enough to make it part of the show, it was quite able to

understand Jeanne's simple commands to fly to a given place and take off again. That

was really all they needed in this situation.

 

None of the Glasseye rebels were at all prepared for this creature out of legend

descending upon their camp. Not a one of them had ever seen a live roc before, and

even those who had seen pictures did not have the presence of mind to connect the

abstract concept with this thing they now faced. All they knew was that some monster,

bigger than any animal had a right to be, was attacking their camp from out of the

nighttime sky. They were not cowards; they would have faced an army of imperial

troops without flinching. But this was the stuff of which nightmares are made. Giving no

thought at all to their weapons, they began running at top speed away from the roc, as it

settled gently in the center of the clearing.

 

Taking advantage of the confusion, Luise and her party sped outside, carrying the

unconscious Lord Hok with them. Luise waved up at Jeanne, who sat astride the roc's

short, stubby neck, then helped strap their charge into the makeshift sling that had been

rigged to carry him out of here. The roc was very nervous, first at having so many

people screaming and running all around it and then having the d'Alembert party

figdeting with the strange device around its neck.

 

Jeanne was projecting soothing emotions and talking to the roc in gentle tones, but

keeping the large creature under control required her fullest concentration. At last, when

Lord Hok was safely strapped into his carrying harness, Luise gave the animal trainer

the "all smooth" signal, and Jeanne commanded her mount into the air once more. The

roc barely had room to spread its wings fully in the small clearing, but a couple of

mighty flaps brought it quickly above treetop level, after which it had much more

freedom of motion.

 

The d'Alembert party remaining on the ground, strong though they were, were bowled

over by the winds left by the roc's takeoff. They waited until the gusts had subsided,

then scrambled to their feet and raced for cover back into the headquarters building.

Their primary mission had now been accomplished, but the entire battle was far from

over.

 

The incident with the roc, from its first appearance until it disappeared once more into

the sky, had taken less than three minutes. Some of the cooler heads among the rebel

gang were beginning to realize that something more than just the appearance of a

monster might be involved in the events of this evening. Half a dozen of them stopped

their outward flight, drew their blasters and fired upward at the retreating form of the

roc, but the mammoth creature was far beyond the range of their puny hand-held

weapons. The terrorist leaders began rallying their frightened troops, and, within

another minute and a half, were able to lead their forces back into the clearing in search

of any enemies.

 

Luise and her party watched tensely from the headquarters building as the rebels made

their cautious approach. The d'Alemberts had come into the camp without any powered

weapons so they could get past the security detectors, but they had blasters now, taken

from the bodies of the rebels they'd killed earlier. Luise had the team hold their fire as

long as possible while the enemy slowly advanced. She knew there would be doubt in

the opponents' minds about a great number of things, and letting them advance in

silence into the darkness would only increase their fears. She was not worried about

defending her position; the terrorists had designed their headquarters building to

withstand enemy assaults, and Luise's people were all crack shots. They should have

no trouble fighting off an attack, if it came to that. But reinforcements were on the way.

 

With Lord Hok now safely in their hands, there was no need for delicacy, and Duke

Etienne relished the opportunity to flex his metaphorical muscles. The instant the roc

had touched down at home base, the circus's manager gave the order to begin Phase

III, the full-scale assault. Armored trucks filled with d'Alembert fighters surged ahead

through the jungle, heedless of any alarms they might be setting off in the process.

Anyone who got in their way was mowed down mercilessly-as the terrorists had been

doing for some time to innocent civilians on Glasseye.

 

As alarms began sounding throughout the camp, the reentering rebels stopped and

turned back toward the entrance, prepared to face this new, unexpected enemy. Luise

waited until the first of the trucks made its appearance, then ordered her own group to

commence firing from inside the headquarters building. Caught in an unexpected

crossfire, the rebel troops never had a chance. Energy beams began sizzling the night

air, and within thirty seconds the terrorist forces were decimated. The few survivors of

that fiery debacle broke from the ranks and fled for cover into the dense jungle. Special

details were assigned the job of tracking them down.

 

So successful was the mission that, in the end, out of a total of one hundred and three

rebels known to be staying at the camp, only six were left unaccounted for-and those

were of no significance at all.

 

Chapter 3

The Imperial Council

 

The Imperial Council was perhaps the most anachronistic element of the entire

governmental structure, a throwback to the times before the rigid class system had

settled into the minds of people throughout the galaxy. Unlike the Chamber of

Thirty-Six, where the grand dukes met to consider matters placed within their

jurisdiction by the Emperor, or the College of Dukes where the rulers of individual

planets met to discuss policies, the Imperial Council's constituency was neither fixed

nor composed exclusively of nobility. The Emperor appointed its members from among

the most eminent people of his time, regardless of rank; even commoners had served

in it with distinction, up to and including the exalted post of prime councilor. Depending

on the ruler, the Imperial Council could be composed entirely of sycophants, cronies,

mistresses and charlatans; but a wise and able emperor used his prerogative to appoint

people of intelligence and diverse opinions, so that he might better understand all sides

of an issue before deciding. The Emperor's word was law, but that did not stop him from

listening to advice.

 

Under Stanley Ten, the Imperial Council had always been a center for lively debate,

even on unimportant issues. Today, the issue before it was the spread of terrorism

throughout the Empire, and emotions ran strong. As the Head of SOTE, Zander von

Wilmenhorst was automatically a member of the Council, and the report he made was

mixed. He told the Council of the Service's success on Glasseye, and the news was

accepted gratefully by all; but his prognosis for the future set off a bitter fight between

the Council's two major factions.

 

Prime councilor at the moment was Duke Mosi Burr'uk of Katswabia, a small black man

in his late fifties with a smooth-shaven skull and gold-rimmed glasses. He looked weak,

but appearances were most deceptive; he possessed one of the shrewdest minds in

the Empire, and made all his presentations with the force of his dynamic personality.

Unfortunately, he and von Wilmenhorst were frequently on opposite sides of any issue.

 

The P.C. was now holding forth on the subject of the terrorists. "We cannot continue to

let these acts of aggression against the rightful government go unpunished. To do so is

to abrogate all our responsibility, to encourage anarchy and to abet rebellion. I applaud

the action of SOTE in this particular instance; it proves what I've been saying all along,

that fast and uncompromising actions are needed if we're to stop this nonsense. These

terrorists smell weakness like a pack of wolves; the only thing they respect is armed

force. We have the power at our disposal to obliterate these scum from the face of the

galaxy; I do wish we would choose to exercise it and flex our muscles a little more

often."

 

Duke Mosi was far from the end of his planned tirade, but his pause for breath and for

dramatic effect gave the Head an opportunity to interject some remarks of his own.

 

"Having the power, my dear Mosi, implies the responsibility to use it wisely. In some

cases, the more power you have, the less ability you have to act. The Emperor's power

is absolute, so he must show more restraint than is ordinarily expected. He has the

power, for instance, to condemn children to death merely for stealing a piece of candy

from a store. But doing so would represent foolhardiness in the extreme."

 

"We're not talking about pieces of candy. These are terrorists who kill people and blow

up buildings. Surely you'll concede the moral difference."

 

The Head nodded. "Yes, of course. But I feel we should leave their capture and

punishment-at least on an overt level-to the local authorities, the same as we do for

ordinary murderers and arsonists. To give them special treatment would be to offer

them the recognition they want; by seeming to ignore them, we - are thwarting the

achievement of their goals."

 

"There is a fundamental difference between terrorists and ordinary criminals," Duke

Mosi insisted. "These people have stated their aim is to overthrow the Empire. Your

Service is supposed to prevent that."

 

"And that is exactly what we're working to do. Not by running after them on a

case-by-case basis every time they blow up a building. That's what the local police are

for. But by investigating the root cause of the phenomenon and destroying that. Kill the

roots of a plant and the visible part soon withers and dies. That's a job the local police

can't handle, because the unseen part of this unrest spans interstellar distances-but it's

the kind of work SOTE does best.

 

"The Service is convinced that there is a single conspiratorial group behind most or all

of these terrorist organizations. That's where we're concentrating our efforts, and that's

where I think we stand the best chance of success."

 

The debate raged for more than an hour, with both points of view being rigorously

defended and attacked.

 

William Stanley, supreme ruler of the Empire of Earth, sat quietly in his seat, as was his

wont, and absorbed all that was being said, speaking only when it was necessary to

calm down the more excited of the various speakers, or to puncture some pretentious

metaphors. His eyes and ears missed nothing that happened within the room, and

finally, when it was obvious to everyone that the argument was circling around without

any further points to be made, he brought the discussion to a close with observations of

his own.

 

"It seems to me," he said, "that cracking down harder on the rebels might be a mistake

at this point. At the moment, from all I've been able to determine, these terrorists are a

decided minority within the Empireless than a hundredth of a percentage point of the

total population, if SOTE's figures are to be believed. The terrorists have little popular

support. The overwhelming majority of the populace sees them merely as thugs and

troublemakers. That's how I want to keep it.

 

"If I move in with force against these packs of human kulvaks, I automatically vindicate

their existence. I provide them with the `imperial oppression' they've been decrying so

loudly. I give them the opportunity to shout, 'if we're not right, why is he sending his

goon squads against us?' It will make martyrs, and people will start wondering whether I

really am oppressive. I would only be handing the opposition more new converts.

 

"I agree with Duke Mosi that action must be taken against these gangs; it must be

strong and it must be, soon. But I think I prefer Grand Duke Zander's plan of action. We

work secretly to undermine the conspiracy. Let them have their little fireworks displays;

as long as they don't get out of hand, we can afford it."

 

He slanted a stern look toward the Head. "And it's SOTE's job, of course, to make sure

they don't get out of hand, isn't it?"

 

"Quite so, Your Majesty," Zander von Wilmenhorst replied.

 

The Emperor stood up, and all the councilors quickly rose to attention. "Then,

gentlemen and ladies, I think this meeting has served its purpose. Thank you all for

your ideas and advice. Until next time..." He gave them leave to depart with a sweep of

his hand, then reconsidered a bit. "Zander, if I could speak with you privately?"

 

"Of course, Your Majesty."

 

The Head followed his ruler into the Emperor's private chambers, where pretenses were

dropped and they were just two old friends, Zan and Bill, respectively.

 

Those generalized terms you were using are all very well for a council meeting," the

Emperor said, "but tell me, what in hell are you really up to these days?"

 

The Head explained his intuitive feelings that Lady A and her organization were behind

these activities. "As you pointed out, they have so little popular support that they

couldn't keep going unless they had some secret sponsor supplying them with money

and people. We have some strong leads from the raid on Glasseye. I think we've

enough justification now to put the d'Alembert-Bavol teams onto it. If they can't crack

the problem, no one can."

 

"I hate the thought of cutting short their honeymoons," the Emperor said, "but I agree

it's necessary. As pompous a windbag as he is, I think Mosi is right. This is a problem

that threatens the stability -of the Empire, and, if your hunch is correct, I want it taken

care of before Edna ascends the throne. God knows, the poor girl will have enough

problems to face without having to worry about insurrections, too."

 

The Head nodded. After a few more minutes of innocuous chatter, the two men parted

and Zander von Wilmenhorst flew back to his headquarters in Miami.

 

Returning to his spacious office, he punched the intercom for his daughter, who was

also his chief assistant. "Helena, put through a scramble call to DesPlaines. We've got

some assignments to parcel out."

 

Chapter 4

Honeymoon on DesPlaines

 

DesPlaines: An inhospitable lump of rock circling a Yellow star at a respectable

distance. A critic once

defined it as "the slag heap of the universe." It was a world of sharp, jagged mountain

ranges, of small but restless oceans, of turbulent storms that would spring from

nowhere and cause their havoc, only to disappear once more as mysteriously as they

came. It was a compact world with few earthquakes; all of its material had settled into

the densest configuration long ago.

 

Above all, it was a world where things moved quickly. Because of its superdense

composition, the gravitational acceleration of objects falling at its surface was three

times as fast as that on Earth. Objects weighed three times their terrestrial value, and

fell with speeds that astonished the uninitiated. It was not a planet for weaklings or

slowpokes.

 

There was native life on the planet when the first human settlers came, life that had

adapted to these hardy conditions. There were grasses and cereals so tough that no

terrestrial could chew them; trees so hard that the sharpest Earthly axes failed to make

a dent; animals that moved like invisible streaks, with two or more hearts apiece just to

keep their "blood" circulating through their bodies.

 

Human settlers arrived at DesPlaines in 2018, two years after the tyrannical communist

take-over of Earth. They were primarily of French and North American descent, looking

for freedom and a better life. Had they known the hell that awaited them on the planet's

surface they might well have kept searching. But their ship was having difficulties and

they were tired. They decided to take their chances here, so they landed and began

their colonization.

 

More than half of them died within the first three months. The largest single cause of

death was stumbling; when objects fell at three times their accustomed rate, there could

be no such thing as a minor accident. Heart failure was a close second as a major killer;

the human heart had just not been intended to pump blood for long periods of time

against such incredible resistance. As if those two reasons were not enough, there

were plenty of other factors acting to reduce the population: bone disorders, women

dying in childbirth, exotic diseases, and native animal attacks. The local predators saw

these slow-moving creatures as an ideal food source, and made vast inroads into the

colony's population.

 

Those who did survive, though, were tough. They were the strongest, fastest, and

healthiest of the original settlers. They knew they were stranded here for the rest of

their lives (taking off from a three-gee world in a disabled ship was no easy task). Infant

mortality in those first few generations was so high that they were forced into extreme

prolificacy to keep their numbers up.

 

The second generation was better able to cope with the conditions on DesPlaines than

was the first. They combined whatever genes had made their parents' bones and hearts

slightly stronger than those of the people who had perished. They had never known any

weaker gravitational pull so, while moving at the necessary speeds put a great tax on

their systems, things did not seem too fast for them.

 

With each succeeding generation, the survivors were slightly tougher, slightly faster,

slightly stronger. Sixty-two years after the initial settlement, exploratory ships under the

Koslov Dynasty from the once-again capitalistic Earth rediscovered DesPlaines. It was

known, by now, that there were enough terrestrial style planets to go around, and that

no one need live under such harsh conditions. The government of Earth offered to help

move the DesPlainians to a more hospitable world, but, surprisingly, the DesPlainians

refused. Their parents and grandparents had died to build this home for them, and they

took a stubborn pride in it. "DesPlainians," they boasted, "can live where no one else

would dare." And so they remained on a planet that was officially listed in the Empire's

planetary classifications as "hostile."

 

After a while, they even began to thrive there. DesPlaines was a planet rich in heavy

metals and precious stones, which the rest of humanity always needed, and

DesPlaines' export trade was soon booming. The people were an asset, too.

DesPlainians were in constant demand throughout the rest of space as soldiers,

fighters, explorers and bodyguards because of their extraordinary reflexes and superior

strength.

 

Of such stock was the d'Alembert family bred, and in particular, Yvette d'Alembert

Bavol. Although she was short, standing 163 centimeters, and at 70 kilos mass was

more heavyset than the terrestrial ideal, there was not a gram of flab to be found

anywhere on her body. Being a native of a high-grav world had given her the physique,

and being a member of the unique d'Alembert clan had put in an extra conditioning that

few people in the galaxy could match. She and her brother Jules had been the circus's

star aerialists before leaving the show two years ago to become SOTE's prime team of

agents.

 

Her thoughts at the moment, though, were far from any conspiracies threatening the

Empire. She was sitting on a blanket on the ground, looking across at her husband of

less than a month, Pias Bavol. Like herself, Pias was a native of a high-grav world-

 

Newforest, rather than DesPlaines-with the stereotypical high-grav physique. Like her,

too, Pias was an agent for the Service of the Empire. But right now Yvette was thinking

only about the way the ringlets of Pias's sandy brown hair curled down over the top of

his forehead, and the way his light blue eyes took on such a boyish sparkle when the

two of them were alone.

 

Yvette had spent the past few weeks since their arrival on DesPlaines showing her

groom the sights of her native world. Today she had suggested a picnic in the Bois

Mercredi at the north end of the d'Alembert estate; Pias, cheery as ever, agreed. It was

late autumn in this hemisphere; DesPlainians trees, instead of dropping their leaves,

reabsorbed them into the branches, retaining the energy in order to survive the bitterly

cold winter that was to come.

 

They were in a thinly wooded section, atop a hill overlooking the ducal estate to the

south. To the north rose the majestic Razortooth Mountains, at once exciting and

forbidding. Pias was looking out at the grandeur of the scenery, unaware of how intently

Yvette was looking at him.

 

"It's all so beautiful," he said quietly. "It makes me feel like composing a poem."

 

"Then why don't you?" "You'd laugh at me."

 

"No I wouldn't, I promise." Yvette made a crossing motion over her heart.

 

"Khorosho." Pias sat up straight and cleared his throat pompously. "I call this `Ode to

DesPlaines':

 

The mountains go so very high As they reach upward to the sky like fingers reaching for

the night Except the broken one on the right. The clouds are shapes that I adore; They

look like bugs squashed on the floor.

 

In the Twin Lakes of Eastwind my gaze is lost, They look like eyes just slightly crossed.

 

The valley down below is..."

 

But that was as far as he was able to get, as Yvette was hugging her sides and rolling

on the blanket in a fit of hysterical giggling. Pias pretended to look hurt. "You promised

you wouldn't- laugh," he said.

 

It took Yvette several moments to regain even a semblance of her composure. "I lied,"

she answered at last, wiping at the tears with one hand. Then, as Pias made a face,

she burst out laughing anew. "Oh darling, that was perfectly dreadful. I don't think I've

ever heard worse in my entire life. Even Jules has a better flair for scansion than that."

 

Pias sniffed. "I've been told I have the soul of a true poet."

 

"Then you'd better give it back to him before he misses it. I think you'd better stick to the

things you're good at."

 

"What, for instance?"

 

In reply, Yvette reached one hand up behind her husband's neck and pulled his head

down toward hers. They kissed for almost two minutes. "That," said Yvette as they

paused for breath, "is better than a hundred poems."

 

"It's nice to know," Pias answered, giving her a dozen tiny kisses all over her face and

neck, "that I've found my true niche in life at last. But it is a shame you stopped my

poem there-I was just getting to the sexy parts."

 

"Heavens! I wouldn't want to stop you from getting to the sexy parts." But for a while,

she kept Pias too busy to think of poetry.

 

As they lay on their backs, side by side, she suddenly asked, "What are you thinking

about?"

 

"Oh," he said casually, "just how I could murder your brother Robert and his three

children so that you could become the next Duchess of DesPlaines and all of this could

be ours. Nothing serious."

 

"Idiot!" She leaned over and kissed his earlobe, then sighed. "It has been a nice few

weeks, but I'm afraid it's about over. Lady A is still out there, plotting her head off as

usual, and very soon now the call is going to come in saying that the Empire needs us."

 

"Be that as it may," Pias told her, "right now we are just two ordinary people on a picnic,

and I need you. You know my philosophy-live for the moment, tomorrow will be here

soon enough." And he began kissing her again.

 

The tomorrow Yvette was fearing actually came earlier than either of them expected. As

they drove back from their picnic, through the massive, gray stone walls that

surrounded the ducal mansion, Yvette spotted her brother's car parked in the wide

courtyard before the front entrance. Yvette frowned. Jules and Vonnic had been staying

as guests of Yvonne's father, Baron Ebert Roumenier down in Nouveau Calais. They

weren't due back for another couple of days. Smelling trouble, Yvette hurriedly climbed

the front stairs and entered the building.

 

Her sister-in-law, Marchioness Gabrielle, met her inside the door. Gabrielle was slightly

older than Yvette, with steel gray eyes, an aristocratic nose, and dark hair streaked

delicately with touches of red. "I'm glad you finally bothered to show up," she said,

traces of annoyance in her voice. "We've been worried. What have you been doing all

this time?"

 

"Probably the same thing Jules and I were doing six hours ago," Yvonne d'Alembert

said, entering the hallway from the large salon off to one side. "Probably the same thing

you did on your honeymoon, Gabby. I don't think it's changed that much over the

years."

 

Vonnie greeted her new sister-in-law with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "You certainly

look like married life agrees with you," she said.

 

Yvette looked into Vonnie's almond-shaped eyes and smiled. There was a glow about

her brother's wife that lit up the entire room. "You seem to have a touch of that,

yourself."

 

"You shouldn't stay out of touch so long," Gabrielle chided, interrupting the other two

women. "In our business we have to be ready at a moment's notice."

 

At the mention of business Yvette stiffened slightly. Just as she'd thought, it was time to

end their little idyll here and get back to the serious work of keeping the Empire safe.

"What's happened?" she asked.

 

"A scramble call came in from headquarters on Earth five hours ago," Gabrielle said. "It

was specifically for you and Jules. I told them you'd call back, then contacted Jules. He

and Yvonne got here a couple of hours ago, and Jules has been barricaded in the com

room ever since. He wanted you-alone-to go directly there as soon as you got in."

 

"Merci. Then I'd better get there, hadn't I?" Yvette scurried away before the

Marchioness could reply. She reminded herself that Gabrielle really was basically a nice

person, but inclined sometimes to take herself too seriously. She was a d'Alembert by

marriage rather than by birth, and carried the additional strain of being the actual

coruler of DesPlaines (along with her husband Robert) in the absence of Duke Etienne.

By suppertime, Gabrielle's annoyance would have burned itself out and she would be

her old charming self again.

 

The d'Alembert ducal mansion, Felicite, was, like most buildings on DesPlaines, a.

one-story affair; it simply was not wise, on a heavy-gravity planet, to build tall structures.

But being only one story did not mean it lacked grandeur. The mansion was a vast

complex of rooms and hallways, covering more than half a hectare of ground. There

were thirty rooms, not counting bedrooms or freshers, decorated in varying degrees of

elegance; there were a hundred and ten bedrooms, ranging from luxurious to cozy. On

the spacious ground behind the house was an enormous camp area for those incredibly

rare occasions when the circus would take time off from its busy schedule to return to

home base and try out new acts or repolish old ones. There was also a set of barracks

to house the entire clan when that need arose. Felicite may not have been the towering

castle that many dukes erected for themselves but, by DesPlainian standards, it was

still a fine display of ostentation.

 

Considering the vast size of the building, it was little wonder it took Yvette a full five

minutes to reach the com room. The walk gave her plenty of time to think about what

the call might be. The secrecy involved almost guaranteed that it was the Head himself

making the call. His identity was known to only a handful within the Empire, and he

preferred to keep it that way. Even Pias and Yvonne did not know who was the top man

of SOTE. There were times when the secrecy seemed a little silly (after all, Lady A and

her cohorts knew his identity perfectly well), but on the whole, Yvette approved of the

system. After all, there were even fewer people who know of the circus's involvement

with SOTE-including, she hoped, Lady A.

 

The door to the com room was locked, but Jules opened it at her knock. Yvette's

brother was a year younger than she was, but taller and considerably more massive.

"Come on in," he said. "The Head's got some jobs for us."

 

The face in the subcom unit's screen brightened as it saw Yvette approach. Spymaster

and agent greeted one another as old friends, which by now they were, and then got

down to business. "I've already given Jules the details of his and Vonnie's assignment,"

the Head told Yvette, "but I'll recap it just for your information. Then I'll give you your

own job. Did you hear about the affair on Glasseye?"

 

"I'm afraid Pias and I haven't had time for anyone's affairs but our own," Yvette smiled.

 

"Well, in brief, your family did a superb job of breaking up a terrorist gang there. As they

were mopping up afterwards, though, they came across what I consider an important

find. The rebels had a supply cave filled with cases and cases of weaponry and

explosives, more than they could possibly have stolen from local sources. In addition,

one of the men captured in the raid turned out to be the representative of the arms

merchant who's been supplying them with their arms. Under questioning, the man

revealed some details indicating that one organization is supplying the weapons to

nearly every outlaw group in the Empire."

 

Yvette gave a low whistle. "That must really be big business."

 

"I prefer your way of putting it. Your brother came up with the pun that business must

be booming." Yvette grinned and gave her brother a sidelong glance. "That's my Julie."

 

"But seriously," the Head continued, "an operation of such scope indicates an

organized conspiracy behind all these supposedly independent terrorist movements. I

don't think you'll have to strain your imaginations too far to guess whom I suspect is

behind it. Unfortunately, this informant was on the selling end rather than the

manufacturing side. He gave us a great deal of useful information about the groups

buying the merchandise, but virtually nothing on where his outfit gets the weapons in

the first place. All he mentioned was some contacts on the planet Nampur. That will be

Jules's and Vonnie's job: finding this arms smuggling ring and smashing it.

 

"Yvette, your job and Pias's will be a little different, although possibly related. I received

a report from Marask Kantana about an army that is building up on Purity. Not a

guerrilla troupe or a terrorist gang, but an actual military organization drilling for possible

combat."

 

Yvette knit her brow. "That hardly sounds like our concern. The law's very clear on that

point: Only the Emperor has the right to maintain an army and navy. Individual planets

do not. It sounds like a simple situation of sending in the Imperial Marines to wipe them

out."

 

"You should know by now, my dear, that things are rarely simple-especially where

Purity is concerned. This particular outfit is known as the Army of the Just, and it's

being formed by one of the most popular evangelists on the planet, a woman named

Tresa Clunard. She isn't preaching against the Empire per se, but she says that the

Empire is facing the worst period of sin and evil in its history, and her army is to go out

and fight these nefarious forces wherever it finds them.

 

"Obviously, we can't let these crusaders go rampaging through the rest of the galaxy,

no matter how holy they believe their cause is. On the other hand, if we send in troops,

it looks like we're trying to stamp them out because of their religious beliefs, which, on

Purity, would only provoke further nastiness.

 

"That's why I want you and Pias to go in there. Find out if our friend Lady A has a hand

in any of that business. If she does, I want you to get the evidence so we can squash

the rebels without appearing to be bigots. If this situation is just what it looks like, I want

you to find some way of derailing them inconspicuously. The less the Service's hand

shows in these doings, the better we look. But either way, I don't want the Army of the

Just hanging around like a fight about to happen:"

 

The Head spent another hour giving Yvette a more detailed briefing about the activities

on Purity, and promised to 'fax her a copy of Marask Kantana's report immediately.

Then he wished them both good luck and broke the connection to return to his other

duties.

 

As their boss's features faded from the screen, brother and sister turned to look at one

another. It was Jules who spoke first. "Well Evie, it looks like the honeymoons are

over."

 

Chapter 5

A Figure in the Dark

 

It was agreed by the two pairs of agents that Jules and Vonnie would take the

d'Alembert private vessel, la Comete Cuivre, to Nampur so that they could get started at

once investigating the arms merchants. This was hardly a great concession by the other

team; Pias still had not learned to fly a spaceship, and Yvette knew only astrogation,

not actual piloting. The Comet would have been useless to them anyway. They would

get to their destination by slower, commercial transportation.

 

The 'fax of Marask Kantana's report arrived shortly after Jules and Vonnie left on their

own assignment. The Bavols pored over it eagerly, searching for anything it might offer

to them in the way of a lead. Nothing immediate popped into their minds, though.

 

They also obtained false identity papers as Cromwell and Vera Hanrahan, citizens of

Purity who had been visiting, relatives on DesPlaines and were now returning home.

For once, they had little worry about disguising their DesPlainian physiques; Purity was

also a heavy-grav world, and its people were quite similar in build to DesPlainians and

Newforesters. Yvette was to find though, that working with Pias would be a far different

experience from working with her brother. Jules had been an almost-compulsive

planner. He didn't believe in starting any job unless he had at least a tentative idea of

how he would attack it. Situations frequently forced him to improvise, of course, but he

always had the general outline in mind before starting to work.

 

As they settled into their cabin on the ship that would take them to Purity, Yvette began

a discussion of what their tactics would be, just as though she were planning with her

brother. To her surprise, she found her husband totally disinterested.

 

"How should I know what we're going to do on Purity?" he asked. "I've never even been

there. I know very little about the place. Most planets, I agree, are pretty much like

Earth in their cultural background, and you know what to expect when you get there.

Purity is one of the exceptions. I can only imagine how funny it would be if, say, Jules

and Vonnie tried to infiltrate society on Newforest, with all our old Gypsy traditions.

They'd be spotted as frauds instantly. Purity, from what I understand, is like that, with

an entirely separate life-style from what we're used to. I'll have to get there, look around

and feel out the territory before I decide how best to make our move."

 

"Oh? And are we both supposed to wait around for a couple of years while you get

acclimated?"

 

"Pish tush, my dear, you underestimate me. We Gypsies are used to sizing up new

situations in a hurry. We even have a saying: No place is a stranger to the Gypsy soul.

Give me a week, two at the most, and I'll be more native than the most rock-ribbed

Puritan you've ever met."

 

"Do you mind if I devise a plan for myself, then?" "Whatever makes you feel

comfortable. As for me, though, we Gypsies live by our wits. We improvise."

 

"I just hope you don't do things by halves. What we don't need is half-witted

improvisation."

 

It would have been easy to interpret Pias's nonchalance as indolence, but such was not

the case. Despite his stated confidence that he could absorb Purity's culture through his

skin, he had brought every bookreel about Purity that he could get his hands on, and he

spent hours in their cabin staring silently into the viewer, reading and digesting volumes

of information. Frequently he would engage Yvette in long discussions of seemingly

esoteric points about the Puritan culture that had nothing whatsoever to do with their

assignment; it helped him "understand the Puritan mentality," he said. By the time their

ship landed, Pias Bavol had made himself probably the leading non-Puritan expert on

the subject of Purity within two dozen light-years.

 

The planet was founded in 2103 by a group of religious dissidents-though others called

them "crackpots"-from DesPlaines who felt that life had become too "easy" for the

settlers on that world. God had meant them to suffer, they said, because only through

suffering could they achieve salvation. When the majority of their fellow DesPlainians

failed to accept their views, the Puritans picked up and left that planet, hoping to find

another even more desolate and forbidding home. They succeeded after almost a year

of searching, and settled in to devote their lives to suffering.

 

The world they called Purity was another high-grav world, with the same three-gee

acceleration as DesPlaines. It was farther from its sun than DesPlaines was, however,

with the result that the climate was far less temperate. Snow covered the ground three-

 

quarters of the year, and the temperature rarely got about twenty-five Celsius even at

the equator in midsummer. It was truly a world, on which to be miserable, and the

Puritans elevated their suffering to a fine art.

 

Every religion has its ascetic sects, and word of Purity's establishment brought converts

flocking to it from all over. Critics of the time, and some since, remarked on how kind it

was of the Puritans to gather all the fanatics together in one place so that they wouldn't

bother everyone else. The religion, which had started out with strong Judaeo-Christian

tenets, soon acquired traces of other religions as the beliefs of the newcomers sprouted

and took hold. Hindu asceticism, mixed in with Sufi beliefs and a veneer of yoga, was

superimposed over that, with the result that modern Puritanism could be said to have

no one father. There was a strong belief in a wrathful God, in the goodness of suffering,

and in the virtues of self-discipline.

 

Immigrants to Purity became fewer, though, as galactic civilization matured. Virtually all

Puritans today were born there without choice in the matter and some found

themselves not at all in tune with the philosophy of the majority. It was an increasingly

common phenomenon to find ex-Puritans roaming the galaxy, usually going to the

opposite extreme and becoming devoted hedonists.

 

The bulk of the Puritans, however, were content to sit back on their self-righteousness

and wait for the rest of humanity to go to hell. It was an event they were expecting

momentarily, even though they'd been waiting for three and a half centuries.

 

When their ship landed on Purity, Pias and Yvette dressed themselves in native clothes

and prepared to disembark. Both wore heavy ecru shirts that itched unbearably, made

of the fiber of some native plants. Pias had on dark brown pants, of a different fabric but

equally itchy, while Yvette was clad in a plain brown skirt that reached to the floor. And

both were shod in thick brown boots made of the toughened leather of some local

animal. To enhance the suffering, Puritans eschewed the use of underwear or socks;

no coats, cloaks or hoods were worn, either, despite the bitter temperatures. That would

have been too "soft" for Puritan standards.

 

Inside the terminal, Pias glanced around at the crowds of people dressed similarly to

Yvette and himself. Nowhere did he see a smile, a twinkling eye, or any sign of human

warmth. "Dullness never goes out of fashion here, does it?" he asked, dismayed

despite the fact that he had expected no better after what he'd read.

 

"You should see them when they aren't all dressed up," Yvette replied.

 

They found accommodations easily enough, a small boardinghouse near the center of

God's Will City, the capital of Purity. Their room was small and sparsely furnished; the

cracked plaster walls were bare of any adornment except a small stitched sampler in a

cracked frame, admonishing them that sacrifice was the road to Heaven. There was

one bed, just barely wide enough for the two of them, with crisp, white sheets and tiny

wooden blocks to serve as pillows; a plainly carved bantawood chair; and a small

writing desk on which lay, naturally enough, a copy of the Puritan Bible.

 

Pias sat down hard on the bed and immediately regretted the action. "Ow!" he

exclaimed, rubbing his posterior. "That bed wasn't manufactured, it was sculpted from

the native rock. We might do better sleeping on the floor."

 

Yvette sat down more easily on the bed. "Nonsense. It'll be good for your back."

 

"How do we turn on the heat in here?"

 

Yvette looked around, but could see no sign of a control switch. "I don't think we're

supposed to. It wouldn't be good for our souls if we were comfortable."

 

Pias made a face and Yvette laughed. "Really, darling," she said, "one would think

you'd never suffered before."

 

"I thought I had, until I came here."

 

Even the food was not to his liking. The boardinghouse served only two meals a day,

morning and evening. Their dinner that night consisted of a bowl of cold stew and

bread. They were permitted all the water they could drink. "Was that bread meant to be

eaten," Pias complained afterward, as they lay together on the bed, "or is that what they

use for throwing at sinners?"

 

"Nobody ever told you the job of being a secret agent was a glamorous one."

 

"I'll have to see what I can do to rectify that," Pias grumbled, but would not elucidate

further.

 

The SOTE agents spent the next three days learning their way around the city and

picking up the Puritan customs. Purity was not an urbanized world; the Puritans felt that

being close to nature enabled them to be closer to God, and they had structured their

society as a collection of small farms. Even the largest urban centers, such as God's

Will City, had populations of fewer than five thousand people.

 

Life dragged by at a slow pace on Purity. Most Puritans thought it decadent, if not

outright sinful, to travel in mechanized vehicles; there were some groundcars, aircars,

and copiers available for use by offworlders doing business here, but the vast majority

of street traffic was either on foot or in carts drawn by eight-legged local beasts. Shops

along the street presented no glittering displays, no fancy advertisements, just the

name of the proprietor and the goods sold or services performed.

 

It was Yvette who first remarked on the pattern of the services offered. By the second

day she had noted that approximately one establishment out of every five was

concerned with religion in some way, either selling religious articles or, even more

prevalent, offering religious counsel or. guidance. After Yvette's observation, they paid

closer attention to those details and, in the privacy of their room, discussed the matter.

 

"It seems to be a matter of cultural anxiety," Pias remarked. "It's already well-known

that the Puritans consider themselves better than anyone else in the galaxy. There may

be something in their collective psyche, some compulsion to feel superior to others."

 

"And in that case," Yvette said, picking up on his train of thought, "they wouldn't

necessarily stop at their own borders. Everyone on the planet will be engaged in his

own personal battle to be superior to his neighbors."

 

Pias nodded. "Exactly. We have a planet where everyone is straining to be holier than

thou." "`Straining' is a very apt word. That state of affairs is impossible for any sane

person to maintain for very long. Everyone, no matter how sincere his or her beliefs, no

matter how devoted to moral principles, everyone experiences little moments of doubt

now and then; anything else would not be human. But doubt is not allowed on Purity; to

let any of it show would be admitting that you were less religious than the people

around you, and therefore inferior."

 

"Hence," Pias concluded, "the religious counselors. I suspect they fulfill the dual role of

father-confessor and psychiatrist. They listen to people's doubts and then rationalize

them away; they soothe the minds of their clients so that the Puritans can once again

feel perfectly devout. Every society needs something of the sort, to reconcile people's

imperfections with their ideal images of themselves; the more obsessed the society is

with perfection, the more reconciliation it will need." He sighed. "And this is the most

obsessive society I've ever seen."

 

The closer they examined life on Purity, the more they observed this principle in action.

Technically, Purity was governed under the rules of hereditary aristocracy as set forth in

the Stanley Doctrine. But the Puritan religious philosophy taught people that names and

titles in this life were meaningless in terms of salvation. As a result, the official nobility

of the planet received only lip service, enough to satisfy the demands of the Empire; the

people who were truly respected, who had the most political power and who actually ran

this world were the religious counselors. The successful ones had large followings, their

teachings were followed and their advice was quoted most often. They were not

preachers, exactly-the Puritans had no formal clergy-but they were the advisers to the

nobles and the people who were most often heeded.

 

For their third night on Purity, the Bavols attended a public "exhortation" by Tresa

Clunard, one of the most powerful counselors on Purity, and, according to Marask

Kantana's report, the person responsible for the Army of the Just that they were here to

investigate. They both decided it was time they looked upon the face of the enemy, and

Tresa Clunard had just returned to God's Will City, after a successful speaking tour

through the smaller farming communities.

 

The town meeting hall was packed solid when they showed up, even though they had

taken care to arrive half an hour early. Pies and Yvette elbowed their way inside, found

standing room against one wall, and waited with the rest for the spectacle to begin.

There was a buzzing throughout the auditorium that was the closest thing either of them

had seen to excitement since their arrival on Purity. As the lights dimmed, a hush of

expectation overtook the crowd.

 

The first figure out on stage was Elspeth FitzHugh, the counselor's top aide and

administrative assistant. FitzHugh opened the proceedings with an invocation, and then

passed bowls around, making a short appeal for contributions to the cause. Then, when

the people's enthusiasm was reaching a peak, she introduced Tresa Clunard.

 

The stage went completely dark for fifteen seconds, heightening the feeling of

anticipation still further. Then slowly a spotlight came on, illuminating the figure standing

silently at stage center. Gospozha Clunard was not a young woman-middle to late

forties, Yvette would have guessed-but she possessed a quiet self-confidence that

radiated a special kind of beauty all its own to the audience. Her long, blonde hair was

fastened into a single braid down her back, extending as far as her waist. She wore a

floor-length, dark brown robe that was both severe and elegant at the same time.

 

Clunard was an experienced performer, and had her timing down perfectly. She waited

until the spotlight had opened to maximum intensity before she began her exhortation.

Bowing her head slightly to the crowd, she finally began to speak.

 

"Brothers and sisters, I am gratified to look out upon you and see so many worthy

faces. When I think of all the evil, sin, and corruption that is infesting our galaxy, I

sometimes despair for the future of mankind; but when I can see the faces of so many

good and deserving people like yourselves, I am filled once more with the strength of

purpose which God, in His infinite wisdom, has chosen to bestow on me. And I rise up

again, my faith renewed a dozenfold.

 

"For there is evil out there among the worlds, brothers and sisters. There is a sickness

stalking the planets. There is degradation, decadence, and eternal damnation

swallowing up humanity even as we sit here. The enemies of God are many, and their

wiles are devious. Their goal is the total damnation of every living human soul-and they

are winning, brothers and sisters. They are winning."

 

The audience was dead calm despite the intensity of Clunard's speech. To the SOTE

team, it seemed as though the listeners were engaged in a contest to see who could

avoid reacting for the longest time. Clunard paused for dramatic effect, then continued.

 

"We remain here in our own enclave of piety and we think that, because we obey the

Lord's commandments and live according to His wishes, we are safe from the evil that

will overtake the rest of our fellow men. We think that our devotion to the word of God

will give us immunity in the holocaust to come. We think our godliness will ensure our

salvation, no matter what happens to everyone else.

 

"Brothers and sisters, we are only fooling ourselves. These conceits are a delusion

perpetrated by the very evil we think we are avoiding. When that final battle comes,

there will be no sanctuary; the flood will be of such monumental proportions that there

will be no safe islands on which to hide. The magnitude of the evil is so great, brothers

and sisters, that we will be swallowed up as if we never existed. All our struggles, all our

good works will come to nought. God will turn His eyes from us, cast us into the fiery pit

of hell with all the other sinners for our failure in our holy mission to bring His word and

His way to the rest of the galaxy."

 

One woman cried out, and drew immediate stares of rebuke from the people around

her. She sank lower in her seat, and attention returned to the stage.

 

"Out there on other worlds, mankind has abandoned its divine heritage, turned its back

on salvation, and lost itself in godless decadence. Machines make the decisions,

machines till the farms, machines run the factories and produce all the goods that keep

the people in their soft life-style. Every day, thousands of souls are being lost to the

machines-and as the people get weaker, the machines get stronger.

 

"By remaining here on Purity and ignoring the rest of mankind, we are ignoring as well

our divine duty to God. We can no longer sit idly by and let the forces of evil devour the

universe. We live in a time for action, and the person who sits on his hands, no matter

how pure his heart, no matter how deep his devotion to God, that person is as much a

sinner as the vilest indulger in the appetites of the flesh.

 

"We can no longer deny that we are our brothers' and our sisters' keepers. We must go

forth. We must scourge the Empire of sin. We must abandon our safe, sin-free world

and carry our battle to the fleshpots of the decadent majority. Only by knowing the

enemy face-to-face can we ever hope to achieve the victory that God has intended for

us."

 

She came to another significant pause, and gave her listeners, as well as herself, a

chance to catch their breath. She knew she had reached an emotional peak, and she

would be accelerating on the downhill side from here on.

 

"I know what you're saying to yourselves right now. You're saying, `I am one and they

are many.' You're saying, `How can a person like me, the humblest, most sinful

creature God ever made, fight against the monstrous forces of evil?' You're saying, `Evil

is the trickiest enemy man ever fought. We have no chance against it on its own

territory, we can only hope to fight it within ourselves.'

 

"But I say to you that if you listen to such thoughts, then you are being seduced by one

of evil's ablest lieutenants-despair. Yes, we are few in numbers; yes, we are poor

sinners like the souls we are trying to save; yes, the enemy has more weapons, both

physical and psychological, than the human mind can comprehend. But we are not

powerless. We have the greatest force any person could hope to have on our side. We

have our belief. We have our faith. We have God. His strength is beyond our imagining.

His wisdom surpasses all knowledge. If we keep our cause pure and our faith intact,

then God will be with us and we cannot lose."

 

At this point she started to move, taking a dozen steps to her left. The spotlight followed

her until she stopped beside a metal bar that was the only prop on the stage. "There

are some among you," Clunard said, "for whom words alone are insufficient

inducement. You need a demonstration of the powers God can give to those who truly

believe, who are filled with faith and love for Him. I do not enjoy resorting to theatrical

tricks, but I will use all the methods God puts at my disposal to win new converts to His

glorious army.

 

"I have here a bar of ribadium-reinforced structural steel. The bar is fifty centimeters

long, ten centimeters thick and masses about twelve kilograms. To those of you who

say that our enemy is too tough, let me offer an example of the power that God may

grant His servants."

 

Tresa Clunard took the bar between her hands and closed her eyes. Her face took on a

look of beatific innocence, an expression of supreme self-confidence. The audience

was completely still, waiting in awe for the expected miracle to occur. There was a glow

that spread from Clunard's face and hands, a feeling of power that radiated from the

stage and over the audience, covering the crowd like a blanket of peace.

 

All eyes were on the bar. For a moment it seemed to glow with an incandescence that

would surely have burned the counselor's hands if it were real. Clunard's wrists were

twisting slowly in opposite directions, but her face showed no outward signs of strain.

The heavy, metal bar was giving way to her pull like a stick of taffy left out in the sun

until she had given it a full twist; then, without changing expression, she bent the bar

upward into a U-shape. Opening her eyes again and gazing at her handiwork, Clunard

tossed the bar aside with a casual gesture. Falling at the three-gee acceleration of

Purity, the bar hit the heavy wooden floor of the stage with a dull clank that

reverberated through the crowded hall.

 

Yvette watched the act. with great interest. As a performer herself, she appreciated a

good show, and could not help wondering how it was done. The glow, she assumed,

could be managed by any skilled lighting technician, but the bar was another matter.

She had relatives who were weight lifters and wrestlers, any of whom were easily

capable of such a feat; but all of them massed upwards of 120 kilos, and their muscles

were so developed that it was impossible to mistake them for anything but what they

were. Tresa Clunard, on the other hand, could scarcely have massed more than eighty

kilos, if that much (it was hard to tell under the loose robe) and did not look at all

muscle-bound. She had not had to strain to twist the bar. If the stunt had not been

rigged in some way, she was very impressed with what Tresa Clunard could do.

Perhaps a little too impressed; an idea began forming in the back of her mind that she

did not like at all.

 

The audience could not help but gasp at the feat, and Tresa Clunard accepted it quietly,

even seemed to expect it as her due. She gazed out over the darkened hall, and it

appeared her eyes were making contact with every individual in the room. She looked

as though she could measure the exact value of each soul and give change where

required.

 

"That," she said when her audience had again grown still, "is a sample of the power that

the Lord can invest in one of His children who truly believes in Him and loves Him. With

a legion of true believers behind it, can any holy cause possibly fail?"

 

The counselor continued speaking for another half hour. She identified "the enemy" as

the forces of materialism: wealth, labor-saving machines, the desire for easy living,

anything that would concentrate a person's mind on the present life and make him

forget his obligations toward the next. She spoke in general terms about gathering the

faithful together to fight the corruption throughout the galaxy. Not once did she ever

mention the Army of the Just by name, nor did she say the slightest word about raising

arms against the established government. She was much too shrewd for that.

 

By the time her exhortation was finished, the tension within the hall was a tangible

commodity, a violin string stretched taut and ready for bowing. And yet, aside from the

general outburst of amazement when the bar was bent, the audience sat through the

entire speech in stony silence. It's like talking to zombies, Yvette thought, and a chill

rose up her spine.

 

As Clunard finished, the spotlight went out, leaving the auditorium momentarily in

darkness. People who hadn't realized they were holding their breath began to breathe

again, and there was the slight rustling of people shifting in their seats.

 

Then the houselights came on again, and Elspeth FitzHugh stood on the stage. She

waited patiently for the crowd to regain its composure and made another appeal for

donations to the cause. This time as the bowls were passed the rubles flowed like a

river during the spring thaw. While the money was being collected, FitzHugh made

slightly more direct references to an army being assembled to fight for God's cause,

although her remarks were still general enough to avoid charges of treason.

 

With the closing benediction, the meeting was officially at an end. Not many people left

the building, though. A majority surged forward toward the stage, eager to be a part of

the magic they had sampled earlier. FitzHugh was mobbed by people anxious to learn

how they could do more to personally assist Tresa Clunard's cause and, after a short

discussion with Yvette, Pias joined that throng.

 

At last his turn came, and he spoke directly to the counselor's assistant. "I made a large

contribution to the cause, Sister Elspeth," he said, "but I really don't feel that was

enough for me to do. I want to become personally involved in Sister Tresa's work."

 

"It's God's work," FitzHugh chided him gently.

 

"Sister Tresa is merely His instrument for directing it." "Yes, of course. My error is

inexcusable. Nevertheless, I want to combat this menace that threatens the salvation of

us all personally. Do you know of any way I can do that?"

 

FitzHugh looked him up and down critically. "There is an organization of people who,

like yourself, are dedicated to the Lord's fight. Do you have any references?"

 

"References?"

 

"In a closely knit, dedicated organization like this, good intentions are not enough. The

applicant must be known and vouched for by at least four other members before he

may be permitted to join. Can you meet that qualification?"

 

Pias's face fell. "I'm afraid not."

 

"Then I'm sorry, but I'll have to refuse you for now. If you'd like to leave your name and

address, though, I'll keep it for future reference, in case you can be of help to us later."

 

Yvette, meanwhile, went up onto the stage and, with a group of others with similar

curiosity, was examining the metal bar Tresa Clunard had bent. It was, as it had been

described, a heavy, solid metal construction bar; Yvette, with all her strength, could

barely do anything to it, and yet Clunard had handled it effortlessly.

 

As they left the hall, Yvette discussed the matter with her husband. "Maybe Clunard's

just stronger than she looks," Pias shrugged.

 

Yvette snorted. "I don't consider myself a weakling, yet ! couldn't do anything like that.

There's got to be some trick to it." She smacked one fist against her other palm. "I'm

sure my Uncle Marcel, the magician, could think of a dozen ways to fake it."

 

"Perhaps it wasn't faked," Pias said. "I did a lot of traveling during those couple of years

I was tracking down Rowe Carnery, and I saw a lot of unbelievable things. An

unmitigated faith in something can give a person extraordinary abilities."

 

"You think God really helped her bend that bar?" "Maybe, maybe not. But her belief in

God certainly could have. Faith is a mystery no one's solved yet." Then changing the

subject, Pias explained to Yvette his failure to join the Army of the Just. Yvette nodded.

"I was afraid it might be something like that," she said. "They're taking exceptional pains

that no one infiltrate their group. On a small, rural planet like this, everyone knows

everyone else's business. The true enlistee would probably have no trouble getting the

required references; it's only outsiders like ourselves who are suspect. We'll have to go

about this from the outside." She looked at her husband. "Have you come up with any

brilliant ideas yet?"

 

"Still working on it."

 

"Then do you mind if I suggest one?" "I listen to you in all things, my love."

 

"I want to try breaking into Clunard's offices. There's likely to be something there that

will give us a clue about what she's up to, or at least where this army of hers is

headquartered. We can't fight them until we know exactly what they're doing and where

they are."

 

Tresa Clunard, like many of the lesser religious counselors, maintained an office in

God's Will City. The scope of her operations, though, was far beyond the modest size

of her colleagues' spheres. For outward appearances, there was only one storefront

bearing her name, no larger than any self-respecting counselor would maintain; but the

local branch of SOTS informed the Bavols that Clunard's actual offices occupied all the

buildings within that entire city block. When a person became as important as she was,

there were administrative difficulties that involved large staffs, even if the counselor

were not busy organizing a secret army.

 

The Bavols waited until three in the morning to make their raid. They would be

hampered slightly by the fact that they didn't know the layout of the offices into which

they were breaking, but that situation was eased by the fact that the security system

within the office complex promised to be very light. While there was some crime on

Purity, as everywhere, it was punished with such unrelenting harshness that most

Puritans bent on a life of crime chose to go elsewhere. A counselor's offices would not

be heavily guarded at all, compared to what Yvette was used to facing.

 

The Bavols had rented a groundcar, despite the fact that it would make them stand out

in the streets; there was never any way of knowing when they might have to make a

fast getaway. They - parked their vehicle alongside the building and, using a set of

grappling hooks, pulled themselves up onto the roof of the one-story complex. Both

were dressed all in black, with infrared flashlights and goggles to help them see, each

carried a set of tools that would be useful for breaking into locked places, and a

stun-gun in case of trouble. They hoped not to have to use the latter; the whole point of

this exercise was to obtain information without the enemy knowing it had been

obtained.

 

There was a maintenance duct opening out onto the roof. Although Puritans did not

believe in heating or cooling their buildings, they still recognized the practical necessity

of having vents to the outside so that the interior air did not get stale and unbreathable.

The Bavols started to pry the cover off the duct; it squealed hideously, and Yvette took

a vial of special lubricant from her belt to oil the hinges. The cover came off more

quietly then, and the agents lowered themselves inside the building by a carlon rope,

which they left in place to help them get out again.

 

They found themselves in a small janitorial area. Opening the door a crack, Yvette

peered out, but could see no signs of any guards in the hallway immediately outside.

She and Pias slipped out of their hiding place and split up. There was a lot of ground to

cover in this one foray, and they could go over twice as much individually as they could

together. They agreed to meet back on the roof in no more than one hour, whether they

had found anything or not.

 

Pias moved from office to office, looking for any sign of a safe. Clunard obviously would

not leave incriminating evidence lying in plain view, not while the security about

recruiting new members to the army was otherwise so tight. Most of the offices were not

locked, and papers were scattered around for anyone to read. He ignored them and

continued his search.

 

On two different occasions he heard the footsteps of approaching guards. The security

officers were not expecting trouble, and took few precautions to avoid being heard,

making it easy for Pias to avoid them. As he moved deeper into the office complex, he

could almost sense his Gypsy ancestors peering over his shoulder and nodding their

approval of his methods.

 

At last he came to an area that seemed to have been made more secure than the

previous ones. The doors here were locked, and were wired into simple sound alarms.

Pias's training at the Service Academy was still fresh enough so that bypassing the

alarms and unlocking the doors was a simple procedure, requiring only a couple of

minutes' time; after that, he could enter these private offices at will. He discovered no

safes in here either, but the desks were all locked and the tops cleared off. He assumed

that the important papers had been locked away for the night, so he began the lengthy

task of persuading the drawers open to examine their contents.

 

His search was still unrewarded as he was rummaging through the fourth of these

locked offices. As he was bent over the desk looking for clues, he heard a sound. It was

very faint, just the lightest scraping of shoe against floor, but with his senses alert for

any sign of trouble it was enough to warn him of another presence. He tossed the

papers he'd been reading back into their drawer and closed it silently, locking it as it had

been, so no one would be able to tell what he'd seen. He straightened up, and his right

hand closed on the butt of his stun-gun. This was not just another security guard; the

person was moving too carefully, too quietly. It had to be someone who suspected a

burglar was already here, and was trying to surprise him.

 

The scene was not completely dark to him; Pias had his infrared flashlight, which

illuminated the office's interior with an eerie light when viewed through the goggles he

wore. The problem was the beam was a narrow one, focusing on a small area. Pias set

the flashlight gently down on the desk top facing the door so that its rays would show

him anyone who entered; since he was wearing the special goggles and the other

person probably was not, he would be the one to benefit. He stood up and backed

away a few paces, his stunner aimed directly at the door.

 

The quiet footsteps outside came right to the edge of the door and then stopped. The

doorknob began a slow turn, and Pias's finger tightened over the firing button of his

weapon. His heart was pounding so loudly that he thought it would surely alert whoever

was out there that the SOTE-agent was inside, waiting.

 

The doorknob stopped turning, and there was a heart-stopping pause that lasted all of

two seconds. Then, with unexpected speed, the door flew inward and a figure burst into

the room. The invader was a female, but Pias could not tell much more than that, once

she was inside the room, the other person dashed out of the flashlight's beam into the

general darkness of the room.

 

Pias was astonished. No one should be able to move that fast, not on a three-gee

world. The idea had occurred in the back of his mind that this might be Yvette,

accidentally covering the same ground, but he knew his wife could not move that fast.

This woman had burst into the room with a speed comparable to what a heavy-grav

native could achieve on a one-gee world-and on Purity, such a feat should be beyond

human capacity.

 

Pias fired his stunner at the intruding form, but he must have been too slow because

she did not stop. She moved instead into the shadows out of the beam of his flashlight.

Pias could still see her through his goggles as a humanoid-shaped glow of a

heat-emitting source, but there were no fine details such as facial characteristics.

 

She must have seen him too, although she didn't appear to be wearing goggles, for as

soon as she was out of the direct beam from the flashlight she started toward Pias at

the same incredible speed. Pias turned to face the threat from a slightly different

direction, and fired his stunner point-blank into the charging woman. His weapon was

set on three, enough to stun a person for about twenty minutes; his attacker should

have dropped in her tracks long enough for him to get out of there and warn Yvette that

they'd been discovered.

 

Instead, the woman continued her charge.

 

Had Pias Bavol been one whit less resourceful, had his mind been duller or his reflexes

slower, the only thing left to write about him would be his obituary. But, startled though

he was by the stunners lack of effect, his instincts refused to let him freeze up. The

glowing shape was speeding toward him out of the darkness, and he had to get out of

its way. He fell slightly to one side, rolling as he'd been taught to avoid .

 

injury even under these gravity conditions. In one smooth motion he had evaded the

immediate charge and rolled to his feet once more. He had his stunner up and fired

again at the figure-and again, to no avail. As the woman turned to come after him

again, he threw the gun directly into her face. Without flinching, she reached up a hand

to brush the projectile aside.

 

It was at this point that Pias decided to exercise the better part of his valor. He had

never been the sort to make hopeless stands when simple flight offered him a safer

way out. Turning away from his attacker, now, he ran for his life. He left the office,

slamming the door behind him. That would only slow the woman down for a second, but

every second counted.

 

On the other side of the building, Yvette picked up the slight but unmistakable sounds

of a fracas. Fearing for her husband's safety, she quickly left the office she was

investigating and raced out into the hallway, braced for a fight. She stood quietly for a

moment to get her directional bearings, then hurried toward the sounds of the skirmish.

 

As she turned a corner, she ran straight into a pair of guards. Like her, they had heard

the strange noises and were on their way to investigate. Being also natives of a

three-gee world, they could react with nearly the same lightning speed as she could.

But Yvette's training with the Circus, and the fact that she was more prepared for

guards than they were for her, enabled her to recover from the surprise slightly faster.

She shot the first guard point-blank with a number three stunner beam, and he

obligingly collapsed on the floor.

 

That gave the second man the added instant he needed to recover. As Yvette turned to

shoot him, he brought his arm up suddenly, deflecting her aim and knocking the

weapon from her grasp. Now that her hand was free of its gun, she used it to grab the

man's arm in the unbreakable grip of a skilled aerialist. Planting her feet, she whirled

the man around her and, when she'd built up enough momentum, let go. The man flew

against the far wall and crashed to the ground; under this gravity, he would probably

have broken several bones. In any event, he was unlikely to cause her further trouble.

 

Her stunner was somewhere down the darkness of the corridor. Searching for it would

use up the precious seconds she might need to help Pias. Trusting to her inborn

talents, she ran on in the direction of the noise.

 

As she turned the corner, she could see the scene clearly. There were two figures

running in her direction. The one in front she would have recognized anywhere as her

beloved husband. The one following him was some woman whose face she couldn't

make out. Pias had no gun; he must have lost it in the fight. But, though the figures

were slightly blurry and indistinct in the infrared glow, one fact was abundantly clear-the

woman chasing Pias was running faster than any living being had a right to.

 

Yvette could tell that her husband would not be able to outrun his adversary, and that

he did not wish to stand and fight anyone who could move so quickly. She decided to

help him along. Reaching into the tool kit on her belt, she took out the tiny vial of

lubricating fluid she'd used on the duct cover and threw it with an acrobat's accuracy at

a spot just behind Pias, a few paces ahead of his pursuer.

 

The vial shattered, oozing its greasy contents all over the floor. Either the woman

following Pias did not notice the stain or else she could not stop in time, because she

hit the slippery spot at full speed. Her feet went out from under her, and she slid

diagonally down the hallway, crashing into the left-hand wall with a solid jolt that made

Yvette wince.

 

Then Pias had reached her, and stretched out his hand to grasp hers. "Let's get out of

here," he gasped, pulling her along with him. Yvette was forced to agree; now that their

presence had been discovered, it was only a matter of seconds before even more

security forces were alerted. And besides, she didn't want to face that woman in battle

any more than Pias did.

 

Hand in hand, the two agents ran at top speed back to their janitorial closet. Once

inside, they jammed boxes and crates against the door to gain a few extra seconds,

then climbed up their rope back to the roof. From there, it was a fast jaunt back to their

line, down the side of the building, and off to their waiting car.

 

They wasted no time pausing to see whether anyone had followed them out; Pias

merely gunned the motor and they shot into the darkness for all they were worth.

 

Something had gone terribly wrong back inside that complex, and they would have to

figure out exactly what it was before they dared take another step near Tresa Clunard's

Army of the Just.

 

Chapter 6

Harassment Tactics

 

Unlike Pias and Yvette, Jules and Vonnie d'Alembert had a plan carefully worked out

long before they reached their target planet of Nampur.

 

"The way I see it," Jules surmised, floating in the cramped cabin of their personal ship,

la Comete Cuivre, "the gang we're up against has a virtual monopoly on the arms sales

to the underground terrorist organizations. It's the Head's belief that the terrorists

themselves are independent groups, but that they're being guided by some central

policy maker and who better to control them than the person who ships them their

munitions? They can't function effectively without him."

 

Vonnie nodded silently. She still felt a little in awe of her new husband and, while they

had both worked together before, this was their first mission as husband and wife. She

was more than willing, for the moment, to let Jules do all the planning for the team. She

could scarcely go wrong, after all, listening to the ideas of the only man alive who'd

received a perfect score on the Service's Thousand Point Test of capability.

 

"We don't really know who the brains are behind this operation," Jules continued. "All

the Head could learn were the names of a few contacts on the sales end. We could get

in touch with them and try working our way up the ladder to find who's on the top rung.

But that's a slow, grinding process at best, and I'm basically lazy. I'd rather make them

come to me."

 

"By pretending to be a buyer?" Yvonne ventured. Jules shook his head. "I considered

that, but I didn't like it. Establishing our credentials might be a bit awkward. If, we're

terrorists, we'll have to do something to prove it, and I have this natural aversion to

hurting innocent people. Besides, the buyer never gets to meet the big boss. The client

deals exclusively through a salesman. We learned that from the informant we captured

on Glasseye. No, if were going to learn about these arms dealers, we're going to have

to be a lot more than mere customers."

 

"What then?"

 

"Competitors." And Jules's smile was as broad as a shark's who's just smelled a beach

party.

 

The planet Nampur had little to set it apart from dozens of other reasonably prosperous

worlds. Like the planet Chandakha, which Jules had visited once before, Nampur had

been settled primarily by terrans from Asia, particularly Indian subcontinent. But unlike

Chandakha, the entire planet of Nampur was habitable, resulting in less crowding, less

crime and less general degradation. The Nampuri were, for the most part, a prosperous

and congenial people; the world itself seldom gave the Service of the Empire any cause

to suspect trouble might be brewing there. But, as it turned out, it was the quiet worlds

that needed watching the most.

 

There was a man in the city of Lharampas whose name was Panji. According to the

Glasseye informant, this Panji was one of the most important distributors in the chain of

operations. So Jules chose to make him the target. He and Vonnie broke into the man's

home and office, planting microphones in every room and vidicom set, so they could

know his most intimate dealings. They followed him everywhere, photographed and

traced everyone with whom he came in contact, made and compared extensive notes,

until finally, after weeks of study, they knew all the patterns of the man's life. Only when

they were sure of their subject did they start to act.

 

It was little things, at first, such as vidicom calls late at night which, when answered,

showed no one on the other end of the line. Panji would come home to find his front

door ajar, even though he distinctly remembered locking and bolting it before leaving.

Goods were delivered which he'd never ordered. Customers complained that he-called

them to either make or cancel appointments, and he knew those calls had never been

made. Envelopes turned up in his mail containing nothing but ashes. Gradually, though,

the pranks escalated. A rock was thrown through his window. Salt was strewn through

his garden. A string of dead grass snakes was laid on his doorstep. All four tires were

stolen from his groundcar.

 

Within two weeks, Panji was a nervous wreck. But a man in his position as a major illicit

arms dealer could not go to the police to ask for protection against this 'harassment,

lest the authorities pry a little too closely into his activities. Panji therefore went out and

hired a squad of professional bodyguards and toughs to watch over his property.

 

Within twenty-four hours, all the guards had vanished mysteriously, and could not be

found anywhere on Nampur. Panji found he could not hire any more. His reputation was

preceding him, and no one wanted anything to do with him.

 

Finally, with the stage well-set, Jules and Yvonne moved into Phase II of their plan. It

began with a plain, unsigned note left on Panji's living-room table: "Expect a vidicom

call." Panji, desperate to find out who could be at the bottom of this series of tortures,

stayed home for the entire next day, glued beside his set. When the suspense had

become unbearable, the vidicom rang and Panji answered it with great trepidation.

 

The visual screen was blank, and all he heard was a hoarse male voice at the other end

of the connection. "There's a yellow, wooden bench near a takto tree at the northeast

corner of Parrawli Park. Be there tomorrow at two-thirty. Alone." And the line went dead.

 

Panji was at the appointed spot precisely at two-thirty. He brought with him an expert

marksman who was to hide in the bushes near the spot and pick off whoever contacted

Panji; but Vonnie, scouting the area thoroughly for just such a double cross, found him

long before he could cause any trouble. Panji found the man afterwards sleeping off the

aftereffects of a sharp blow to the jaw.

 

Meanwhile, as Panji sat on the designated bench, he was approached by a man with

the shaved scalp, blue-dyed skin and brown robes of an Arborean mystic. The man sat

down beside him and was silent for a moment. Panji wondered whether this was indeed

the right man-until suddenly the mystic spoke.

 

"You and I deal in the same commodity tovarishch," the stranger said.

 

"Do we indeed?" Panji, though nervous, still had enough composure to put up a brave

front. "What commodity is that?"

 

"We provide people the wherewithal to make things go boom, is that not correct?"

 

"What if it is?"

 

"Simply this: to date, you have supplied your customers with merchandise from only

one firm. My associates and I insist that you start filling your orders with our

merchandise instead. We can supply you with everything your former suppliers could,

at a competitive price."

 

"I've been dealing with this other firm for years. I have a certain amount of goodwill built

up. Why should I suddenly switch over to you?"

 

"We insist very strongly," Jules said. Though his voice was quiet and the words

underspoken, Panji had little difficulty understanding the implied threat hidden there.

 

"This is not a decision that can be made easily," Panji said. "I've developed a certain

loyalty and rapport with my other suppliers. I know I can trust them-"

 

"Rest assured gospodin, you can trust us, too. You can trust us to be most disappointed

if you decline our offer."

 

Panji was starting to sweat, though the weather was quite mild. "I need some time to

think it over." "Of course. Take all the time you need, up to thirty seconds. Then say

yes."

 

Jules had not made any movements that were directly threatening, but the implied

menace in his voice and the harrowing events of the past several weeks convinced

Panji that arguing with this stranger would be less than profitable. He did not know

whom or what this stranger represented; until he knew better what he was facing, it

would be safest to play along.

 

"Smooth," he said aloud. "What did you have in mind?"

 

"Word has it that you'll be meeting a customer tomorrow from the planet Wallach. You

will fill their order with our merchandise rather than that of your usual supplier. What is

their shopping list?"

 

Now that they were talking straight, cold business, Panji felt much more at ease. The

shrewd merchant facet of his mind took over. "Two cases of lightweight, PR-3 blasters,

a dozen XN-17 heavy duties, fifty kilos of stelemite, one gross acid-mix fuses,

seventy-five compression cases. I think that's all. Can you handle that?"

 

"We could supply that just sweeping the miscellany off our storeroom floor. How much

were you going to pay your supplier for providing all that?"

 

"Thirty thousand rubles."

 

"Actually," Jules said, "the figure is forty-seven thousand, five- hundred." He smiled at

the startled look on Panji's face. "You see tovarishch, we know a lot more about your

dealings than you supposed. Still, we like to give discounts to our new accounts to

welcome them into the fold. We can let you have what you need for forty-five

thousand."

 

"That's reasonable," Panji nodded.

 

"Yes, we feel it's most generous, considering you have no choice, other than to close

your operations down completely." Jules gave him instructions for meeting tomorrow,

and promised to have the shipment of arms all ready for delivery. Panji, in turn,

promised to bring the required cash payment.

 

Their transaction accomplished, Jules stood up. "I know it will be a pleasure doing

business with you, Gospodin Panji. l will see you tomorrow. You will wait here until I

have completely disappeared from sight, and then you may go about your affairs." With

that, he walked down the path and was soon out of sight.

 

Panji was a very worried man. While this newcomer's organization had shown itself to

be resourceful at terrorizing one individual, he still had no idea how successful they

would be at delivering on their promises-or at protecting him from the wrath of his old

suppliers when they learned that he was switching his business to someone else. He

knew his old people well, knew what they were capable of, knew that they would stand

with him in case of trouble. These newcomers struck him as being ruthless sharks who

would cause him nothing but grief. He did not want them to succeed.

 

Panji found the marksman he'd brought with him unconscious in the bushes and left

him there. It would serve him right for being so careless. Panji could not afford to be

surrounded by incompetents, not now, with so much trouble brewing.

 

The stranger could only know so much about his business dealings by tapping Panji's

vidicom; therefore the merchant resolved not to use it again for anything crucial.

Instead, he went to a public booth and put in a call to George Chactan, the man who

had always sold him his supplies in the past.

 

Chactan listened impassively as Panji detailed his recent conversation with the stranger

who wanted to take over the business. When Panji was finished, Chactan drummed his

fingers on his desk top and stared silently at the screen for a moment. "You did the right

thing coming to me," he said at last. "These new people sound pushy. I don't like that.

Pushy people have a tendency to attract attention, and that's the last thing any of us

needs. There's not that much room in our business for competition. Someone is likely to

get hurt. Your contact sounds to me like an opportunist, a punk who wandered into a

situation he doesn't fully understand and who thinks he can bluff his way to the top. We

can't let him get away with that, can we, Panji?"

 

"No sir," the middleman was quick to reply. "Not at all. That's why I called you as soon

as it was safe. This is something I can't deal with on my own, and I need your help."

 

Chactan smiled. "You just relax. Everything will be taken care of. People as obviously

uncouth as this man you met should not be handling explosives; bombs have a

tendency to go off unpredictably. Don't bother showing up at that rendezvous tomorrow.

I have a feeling our friends are going to be in for a nasty, and decidedly unhealthy,

surprise."

 

The truck was parked precisely where Jules had told Panji it would be, at the large,

empty loading dock behind a deserted factory on the outskirts of town. At the hour of

the scheduled meeting with Panji, a long, black limousine rolled into the lot. As the

driver spotted the truck, he gunned the motor and raced toward it, pulling his vehicle

into a curve that came within ten meters of the waiting target. At the closest point of

approach he opened his window and shot a bolt of energy from a high-powered blaster

toward the back of the truck. The parked vehicle started burning as the limousine sped

away again, as fast as the driver could make it go; five seconds later the truck burst

apart with an explosion that rocked the neighborhood for several kilometers around.

 

Nearly a kilometer above, hovering silently in the sky, Jules and Vonnie were looking

calmly down on the scene from their Mark 41 Service Special. This extraordinary

vehicle, though it looked almost identical to a sports model groundcar, was actually a

sophisticated, small battle machine, capable of antigravity, jet-powered flight, and

possessing an arsenal of all the offensive and defensive armament the Service's

technicians could cram into so small a package.

 

"You were right, Julie," Yvonne said as their decoy truck blew apart. "They went for the

bait."

 

"Of course I'm right. Did you think you married a mere mortal, woman?"

 

"Even if I had thought that, you'd certainly have disabused me of the notion by now."

 

Jules began adjusting his controls, and their craft swooped down toward the escaping

limousine. "I think I had best disabuse some people of a few other notions," he said,

never taking his eyes from the forward screen, "such as the notion that they can attack

us and expect to get away with it."

 

As the occupants of the limousine drove away from the scene of the blast, their only

worry-and it was a minor one-was that they might run into some police on this return

journey. But the way ahead of them looked perfectly clear of any traffic, and they did

not think to look upward.

 

Suddenly their limo was rocked by a beam from above. With pinpoint accuracy, Jules

had narrowed his car's multiblasters down to needle beams of ferocious intensity and

shot off the two tires on the right-hand side. The speeding limousine skidded, swerved,

slued into the embankment by the side of the road, and finally overturned, rolling end

over end three times before coming to rest upside down.

 

Jules brought his craft down in a quick swoop beside the stricken limo, and he and

Vonnie raced out of either side, stun-guns drawn. The three men they found inside the

wreck were all too dazed by the crash to offer any resistance, but the d'Alemberts gave

them each a number two stun anyway, just to keep them out of mischief for the next

few minutes. Then they tied their captives up and tossed them in the back of the SOTE

craft. Jules took off again and, on a whim, turned his blasters full force on the wreckage

of the limo. The ground vehicle shattered, bursting apart into a cloud of wreckage that

would never be identified as the limousine it had once been. Once again, mystery would

enshroud the interlopers, confusing the enemy further.

 

Jules placed a vidicom call to Panji, who had been waiting anxiously to hear the results

of Chactan's raid. "You placed your bet on the wrong side, Panji," he said. "Too bad. I

wish I could say it had been nice knowing you, but it hasn't. Is your will up-to-date?" And

he broke the connection without waiting for a reply.

 

"We're not really going to kill him, are we?" Vonnie asked.

 

"Of course not. He's too useful to us as a go-between. But he's due for some close calls

he'll never forget."

 

The men they had captured were just low-ranking blasterbats, hardly gold mines of

information about the arms-smuggling operation. They did, however, provide the

d'Alemberts with Chactan's name and the addresses of three of his warehouses. The

agents then turned the captives over to the local SOTE people, as they'd done with

Panji's bodyguards, asking that they be kept out of circulation until this affair was over.

 

"Think we have enough information to let the local police take over the investigation?"

Vonnie asked her husband.

 

Jules shook his head. "I don't like doing an incomplete job. All we've got is a name and

someplaces where the arms are stored. If we let the police handle it from here, they'll

nail Chactan and confiscate his merchandise, but someone new will merely take over

the practice. Chactan has to be getting his weapons from somewhere. All the legitimate

munitions works are imperially licensed and monitored; if there were any inventory

losses big enough to account for all these sales, they would have been noticed by now."

 

"Which means Chactan or the people behind him have set up an illicit armory," Yvonne

said thoughtfully. "They're manufacturing their own weapons independently."

 

"Precisely, ma cherie. You're catching on quickly. And that's what we have to find and

put out of commission, not some small-time, local supplier."

 

From that point on, the war between Chactan's forces and Jules's "organization"

escalated to enormous proportions. But it was a very one-sided war. Chactan would

find his warehouses destroyed, his guards all vanished. Rendezvous with prospective

buyers would be raided by hooded figures who hijacked the cargo and disappeared into

thin air. The raids against his organization became increasingly bold, and Chactan

seemed powerless to prevent them. He sent out feelers through the local underworld to

discover any leads about the identity of the people behind his misfortune, but there was

no information to be gained at any price. The only conclusion he reached was that

these people were total outsiders who had suddenly and dramatically entered the

picture.

 

Panji, meanwhile, was suffering through a series of his own tortures. As Jules had

promised, the "close calls" were coming frequently. A bomb planted in his groundcar

exploded prematurely, destroying his garage but sparing his life. A flowerpot falling from

a high window ledge just barely missed him as he was walking along the street. A

blaster bolt shot through his bedroom window one night as he was undressing for sleep,

narrowly missing him and burning a hole deep into his wall. Panji was rapidly becoming

a nervous wreck, and he was communicating his nervousness loudly to Chactan.

 

The munitions boss was getting pressured from another side as well. He suddenly

found himself the recipient of long subcom calls from Duke Morro of Tregania

wondering what was holding up the operation. "I've got reports to make, and there's

nothing to say," the Duke complained. "You know he doesn't like that.".

 

Both men knew to whom the pronoun referred: their mutual boss, known to them only

as "C", whose communications reached them only via telecom and who, to the best of

their knowledge, had never been seen by anyone. But, despite the mystery of his

identity, there was no doubt about how he treated subordinates who failed to perform

their assigned functions.

 

"He wants results," the Duke reiterated in his high-pitched whine. "We can't keep up our

end of the program with these interlopers cutting off our trade."

 

"I can't destroy what I can't find!" Chactan snarled. The duke's whining always made

him edgy, and he was already feeling frustrated enough at being unable to handle the

menace. "But tell him things will be back to normal within a week." And he angrily broke

the connection.

 

Chactan, like all the others in C's organization, had certain specific goals he must

achieve, but he had broad discretionary powers about how to attain them. An idea was

forming in the back of his mind. It might not be necessary to fight these newcomers

after all. They just wanted money and power; they had no aims higher than that. He

could give them what they wanted and still work toward his own ends if he offered them

a partnership in his own operation. If you can't beat them, he modified the old adage,

have them join you.

 

He called Panji. "I want you to contact those people. Tell them we're ready to deal."

 

"I don't know where they are, any more than you do."

 

"Still, you're the only one so far who's had any contact with them at all. You'll think of

something." Panji was reluctant to have any further communication with those people,

but Chactan pressured him mercilessly until he gave in. Figuring that they were still

watching him, Panji put up a big sign in front of his house reading, "Truce. Please Call

for Important Message."

 

Within an hour the vidicom rang and he heard Jules's voice. "What's the matter, Panji?

Isn't it a little late for apologies?"

 

The arms merchant could not help but let his nervousness show through. "My, uh,

supplier would like to arrange a meeting with you."

 

"Like the last time? That was a little one-sided."

 

"He says you can pick the terms of the rendezvous. He just wants to talk to you about

joining forces and forming an even bigger organization, with more profits for everybody."

 

Jules and Yvonne, on the other end of the line, exchanged glances and smiles. They

were being invited inside, where they could see the conspiracy's inner working for

themselves. So far, Jules's plan was working perfectly.

 

Chapter 7

Pias the Preacher

 

Neither Pias nor Yvette spoke much as they drove back to their boardinghouse. They

weren't accustomed to having their plans blow up in their faces so dramatically and,

now that they were safely away from the dangerous situation, the shock was beginning

to set in. They sat together in silence, each mentally reviewing the events of the

evening and wondering where they had made their mistakes.

 

Not until they were back at their home base did they open up and talk about the

disaster at the Clunard administrative complex. Pias described his encounter with the

mysterious woman who moved faster than any living creature he'd ever seen and also

was immune to a stun-gun charge. "I can't have missed," he said. "I was at point-blank

range. But she kept on coming."

 

Yvette paused before answering. "This is something I've been worried about ever since

we saw that exhortation, and I'd say our little contretemps tonight has verified my

suspicions. Did I ever tell you about Jules's and my adventure during the Princess's

Progress, on Ansegria?"

 

"I don't think so."

 

"There's so much you have to catch up on. I wish we'd known each other longer."

 

Pias smiled wanly. "The feeling's mutual."

 

Yvette returned the smile. "That wasn't exactly what I was thinking of, but it is a nice

thought. Back to the subject. On Ansegria, Jules and I encountered a robot that had

been fashioned to look exactly like a human being. It was immensely strong,

incredibly-fast and virtually undetectable except with special instruments. A stun-gun

would have no effect on it, because it doesn't have a nervous system; you need

something a little more definite, like a blaster. Vonnie actually destroyed the one on

Ansegria by electrocuting it."

 

Pias nodded slowly. "So that's what we're up against"

 

"It has to be. We learned a little while later that there were at least three other

humanoid robots created at the same time, each with its own specific mission-"

 

"Now I remember your saying something about that. Jules just destroyed one a little

while ago at Edna's wedding, didn't he?"

 

Yvette nodded. "Yes, the one that had been fashioned to look like Lady Bloodstar.

Which leaves at least two to go. We know a couple of additional facts: one is male and

the other female; and both of the ones we know about were constructed to look like

natives of heavy-gravity worlds like DesPlaines or Purity."

 

"Or Newforest," Pias said quietly. Yvette's eyes widened. "Your brother!"

 

Pias Bavol was the eldest child of the Duke of Newforest. As such, he had the title of

marquis and the right to inherit the planet after his father's death. But his younger

brother Tas, through chicanery, had gotten him banished from Newforest on charges

that he was deserting his people. And Pias, because his work for SOTE was top secret,

could not defend himself from those charges. His dying father had disowned him,

cutting him off from all inheritance as though he had never existed. Though Pias

normally affected a cheerful mien, Yvette knew that the wounds from his banishment

went quite deep.

 

"I really don't know," Pias replied softly. "The real '     Tas was certainly nasty enough

to do all that without any outside interference. I don't want to point the finger of

suspicion without stronger evidence to go on, or it would merely look like sour grapes.

We can't be positive Tas is the male robot-but we sure as hell know where the female

is, don't we?"

 

Yvette nodded. The subject of his brother and his birthright was obviously not one that

Pias wanted to discuss right now, so she was just as willing to change the topic. "That

explains how Tresa Clunard was able to bend that metal bar. She's a robot passing off

her superhuman strength as `miracles'. And it means something else too." Her

expression darkened. "It confirms the Head's worst suspicions about the use of this

Army of the Just. The robots seem to be a major weapon in Lady A's arsenal, and she

doesn't deploy them arbitrarily. She must have some future plans for this private army,

important ones. We'll have to notify the Head about this development immediately."

 

"Does that mean SOTE will step in officially to crush this threat?"

 

"I don't think so. You have to remember there are something like twenty or thirty planets

within the Empire that were founded exclusively as religious retreats: Purity, Delf,

Anares, Shambalah, Arborea and so on. If the Emperor acts officially in a manner that

looks like he's quashing religious freedom-even though the motivations are entirely

different-the repercussions. could be enormous. Lady A and her gang were quite clever

to cloak this force under the guise of religious zeal. Even if we had incontrovertible

evidence that this was a nonsectarian plot to overthrow the Emperor, I know the Head

well enough to know he would prefer surreptitious action. It's still up to us to break up

this army from the inside, so they could never accuse the Empire of interfering."

 

"That might not be too difficult. The entire structure is built around the charisma of

Tresa Clunard. Without her; there would be nothing. She preaches against sin, against

evil, against machines! There's the ultimate irony, she's a machine herself! If we can

expose her as one, her followers would be so disenchanted that the army would break

up of its own accord."

 

"Getting the proof to satisfy them won't be easy. They're true believers remember; that

sort is hard to sway from an opinion once they get one into their heads. We'd practically

have to break the robot apart and pull out all the gears before they'd believe us."

 

"Then that's what we'll do." Pias had a grim smile on his face. The robot had scared him

so badly tonight that the thought of pulling it to pieces in front of its admirers was

positively enthralling.

 

They got a little rest, and then the next morning Yvette composed a coded note to the

Head, explaining their theories. She and Pias did not have a subcom unit with them for

direct personal communication. But a letter addressed personally to the Head, with a

Class Six priority and the code signature Periwinkle, delivered to the local SOTE office

would get to its destination within, at most, three days time. As an afterthought, she

added her own suspicions that Tas Bavol might be one of Lady A's robots. She

requested that the Head order the Newforest office of SOTE to make some discreet

checks to determine whether or not that was so. After all, Pias might want to forget the

matter, but Yvette could not forget. The man she loved had been deeply hurt, and

Yvette made a solemn vow that sooner or later Tas Bavol would pay for that.

 

Their plans for exposing Tresa Clunard as a robot were more easily made than

executed. To have the proper effect, the exposure had to be made publicly; yet the

counselor was so popular that Pias and Yvette knew it must be done carefully, or they

would be torn apart by an angry mob before they had a chance to explain.

 

They became regular attendees of Clunard's exhortations, following the counselor

around to the various cities and villages all over Purity. But their abortive raid on her

headquarters had tipped their hand; the opposition now knew that the agents were out

there somewhere, and Clunard's forces had started taking elaborate security

precautions. Whenever Tresa Clunard appeared in public, she was surrounded by a

squadron of guards. The guards were inconspicuous unless one knew what to look for,

but Pias and Yvette could spot them a kilometer away. In private the cordon around her

was even tighter. Security had been beefed up, too, throughout her administrative

offices.

 

After more than a week of frustration, Pias was ready to give up this line of offense. "It's

not impossible to destroy her," he sighed. "But unless it's done absolutely right, it won't

have the effect we want probably just the opposite effect, as a matter of fact. She'd

come out looking like some kind of martyr. I think a change of strategy is called for."

 

"Oh?" Yvette raised an eyebrow. "And have you finally devised this vaunted plan you

keep promising?" "As a matter of fact," her husband replied, "I have. It's a way to

achieve our own ends and, at the same time, bring a little cheer to the lives of these

poor benighted Puritans."

 

"They don't want cheer, they want salvation." "They want both, if only they knew it, and I

can give it to them. What's the primary form of entertainment on Purity?"

 

"There isn't any," Yvette said. "They don't allow sensables, trivision, radio, theater,

sporting events, music. Those things are all too decadent, and take one's mind off the

serious business of achieving salvation. Even the circus has never been allowed here,

and we're the most innocent entertainment in the Empire."

 

"You're right that they ban a lot of things, but you're dead wrong if you think they don't

have entertainment. What do you think Tresa Clunard provides? How about all the

other minor-league exhorters who swarm around the countryside like locusts? Haven't

you felt the emotional intensity at Clunard's shows?"

 

"Now that you mention it, yes, there is a great element of theatricality to what she

does."

 

"Of course there is. All people need some cathartic outlet for pent-up feelings or they'll

go mad. The more restrictive a society, the stronger that need is. The only socially

acceptable way of expressing anything on Purity is through religion, so that's the form

their catharsis takes. People come in droves to attend a show and have some

well-spoken showman tell them how sinful they've been lately. They eat it up."

 

"I haven't noticed you being pure enough to set -a good example," Yvette kidded.

"You'd have a hard time fitting into the mold they want."

 

"All it takes is wit, charm and good looks. All of which you must admit I possess in

overabundance." "You left out modesty."

 

"When you have all the talents I have, you don't need modesty. But seriously, I don't

intend to fit into their common mold, because I don't want to just blend in. I want to

come in with a message directly counter to what Clunard is pushing-that people can still

be holy while accepting modern conveniences. As long as I keep mentioning God and

sin, I'll be socially acceptable. But if I can make any serious dent in Clunard's

audiences, she'll consider us a threat, and come after us. That may give us the

opportunity to make our move."

 

Yvette nodded slowly. She knew from her fighting training that when an opponent

reached out to strike a blow, he usually left an opening that the clever fighter could

utilize-if the blow could be blocked first. "It might work," she admitted. "But first you

have to become such a whirlwind preacher that you represent some danger to her

movement."

 

"Just watch. I am going to become the most astonishing preacher this sorry old planet

has ever seen."

 

He set about his plan by breaking most of the rules Purity's counselors lived by.

Spurning the traditional brown or gray robes, he had local tailors shaking their heads in

bewilderment at the outfit he requested. The shirt and trousers were of nal's wool, and

were pure, dazzling white, as were the knee-high, suede boots for his feet. His belt

would be of thin, hammered silver, and over this ensemble, open down the front, would

be a shiny, white caftan with a train trailing a meter and a half behind him. When he

was on the stage, he wanted his audience star struck.

 

Traditionally, counselors did little to advertise their exhortations; a small box in the local

newsroll listing the name of the speaker, the time, and the place, plus a sign outside the

meeting hall for several days before the event was considered adequate. Pias,

however, saw no reason to hide himself behind a curtain of hypocritical modesty, so he

insisted on running full-page ads in the newsrolls for a week before he made an

appearance; he had handbills printed up and posted on every available wall. He had

flyers mailed to every home in the district where he would be speaking. If there had

been radio or trivision available he would have advertised there as well. He toyed with

the idea of staging parades, but Yvette, thinking that would be much too outre for

Puritan audiences, talked him out of it.

 

He started his tour in the smaller towns, planning to build a reputation there that would

carry him into the cities on a wave of popularity. The rural communities were also an

easier target, because so little ever happened there that anything out of the ordinary

was bound to stir up a great deal of attention.

 

The townsfolk did not know what to make of Cromwell Hanrahan, the previously

unheralded preacher with the cocky manner and the bold new presentation. There were

many who considered him shocking, saying that a counselor, above all his fellows,

should be modest and humble in God's sight; if he didn't set the example of the pure,

simple life, then who would? There were others who, though they would never have

admitted it aloud, were secretly titillated that someone had come along and dared be as

open and flashy as they wished they could be. There were even some people who fit

into both categories at once. But whatever their thoughts were about this strange new

counselor, the fact was that they flocked to his exhortations in record numbers.

 

Pias did not disappoint them. He strode out onto the stage with a brash confidence that

reminded Yvette of her several-times-removed cousin Henri d'Alembert, the circus's

chief barker. Pias's voice boomed out across the hall as he spoke, and he used his

hands to increase the dramatic effect, with gesticulations that emphasized his meaning.

 

"Brothers and sisters," he began, "we all love God. I can see by your faces as I look out

over this audience that you're all good people, concerned with the salvation of your

souls. But you've become so proud of your own righteousness that you're turning your

backs on God's handiwork, throwing away the gifts that God intended you to have. I tell

you, brothers and sisters, the Lord looks with disfavor on a man who spurns what his

God has freely offered."

 

At this point, Pias could tell that his audience was stunned into silence. They were used

to counselors exhorting them to give more of themselves to God; no one ever spoke of

God giving anything to them. Their curiosity would only make them more receptive.

 

"How often do we hear of the blessedness of giving? How often are we reminded that

we must give to others to make ourselves more worthy of Divine Grace? The holy

books of every religion tell us the same thing: that to give freely and openly of our own

riches to those less fortunate than ourselves is to practice the highest form of nobility.

The blessed Saint Paul himself ranked charity above even hope and faith. Is that not

true?"

 

There was a slight murmer through the crowd now. They could scarcely deny that point,

but they still did not see where Pias's speech would, lead them.

 

"Surely if that is true, then it must be a sin to deny a person the chance to exercise his

charity. If someone better off than yourself offers you a gift of his own free will, then to

repel his offer is to deny him the Divine Grace his action would otherwise have earned

him. You are jeopardizing his salvation yourself by refusing to allow him to obtain God's

favor. Brothers and sisters, I submit that God alone has the right and the power to judge

such matters.

 

"Surely then, what we have been doing is a millionfold worse. God has laden this

universe with riches beyond our understanding, given it to us to use for His greater

glory. The wonders of it are beyond numbering, its bounties are beyond

comprehension. Yet here we sit, living our 'pure and simple life,' denying the gifts that

God has freely given us. We are so wrapped up in our own righteousness that we are

marching ourselves straight into hell.

 

"God gave us our eyes, so that we might see the beauty of nature He has created all

about us. God gave us our ears, so that we might hear the sweet harmony of all His

creatures. He gave us our mouths and noses so that we might enjoy the delicious

tastes and heavenly aromas He has set like a banquet before us. These are gifts

beyond price that He has given to us freely, because of His love for us. Praise the Lord

for His bounteous gifts."

 

There were a few straggling echoes of "Praise the Lord" throughout the audience, but

most of the people remained in silence, as they did during Clunard's exhortations.

Perhaps it was expected of them, or perhaps they were wondering whether this new

preacher was a madman or a heretic. The things he was saying made sense, yet felt as

though they were starting to contradict what Puritans had been taught all their lives.

 

Pias was not going to let them get away with so pitiful a response. "I said, praise the

Lord for his bounteous gifts."

 

This time the crowd reaction was a little more favorable, but still not up to the standard

Pias wanted to set. He had to show the crowd that he controlled it, that it must do what

he commanded. "For the sake of your souls, sinners," he yelled at them, "shout it out.

Make the walls shake and the ceiling shudder with the sound of your love for God.

Praise the Lord!"

 

This time he got what he wanted. The response was not quite enough to rattle the

rafters, but it was a good, healthy shout. It would get stronger over the course of the

evening now that the pattern had been set.

 

Pias was just warming up to his topic, and he could feel the fire of his performance

flowing through himself. He strode back and forth across the stage like a caged

panther, swinging the train of his caftan in majestic arcs, staring down the doubts of the

audience, defying anyone to deny the truth of his claims.

 

"But you have turned your backs on God," he bellowed. Swirling the caftan's train

around his right forearm, he pointed an accusing finger and swept the arm to

encompass his entire audience. "You have said, 'To deny my eyes a look at His beauty

is holy.' You have said, 'To deny my ears the pleasure of His music is blessed.' You

have said, 'To deny my senses the tastes and smells that God intended for them is the

highest form of worship.' In doing so, you reject all the gifts God has lain before us. You

reject God Himself, for is not God in all the wonders that He has created? Oh you

sinners, fear for your souls, for you have denied the gifts of God!"

 

One woman cried out in anguish, and Pias knew he had the audience where he wanted

it. He was getting into more familiar territory now as far as they were concerned, and

they could accept more of what he said. There is nothing a Puritan loves quite so much

as to be berated for how sinful he is. He regards such a purging of his soul the way a

more hedonistic man might view a soothing bath; it allows him to emerge afterward

feeling cleaner, more refreshed.

 

Pias continued to pound his theme home. "God gave us our hands, the most marvelous

tools in the universe. He gave them to us that we might use them to build, to create as

He created, so that we might truly be in His image. He intended us to make order out of

chaos, to the greater glory of His name.

 

"But what do you do with these divine hands that He gave you? You hoard them and

their talents, like the wicked and slothful servant of the parable. You till the land for

survival, fashion the simplest tools and the plainest buildings, and think that thereby you

are fulfilling your obligation to God. Instead, you false thinkers, you are cheating God of

the glory that is His due. I say woe unto you, and fear the imminent wrath of God! For,

as with that unprofitable servant of the parable, you will be cast into outer darkness,

and there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth!"

 

There were wails of woe from the audience, and Pias paused to let them run their

course before he continued. "God's greatest gift of all is our minds. He gave us these

magnificent instruments to explore the puzzles He has put before us. And each new

secret we discover about the universe only makes us appreciate the miracles of God

still further. But you, you righteous sinners, you turn away from the miracles of science,

the miracles which God gave man the ability to find. There are those who say that

technology is evil, that because it eases the burden of our existence it must therefore

be wrong. But I say that technology is a blessing that God has given us so that we may

marvel even more at the wonders He has created. Did He not give us the brains with

which to create machines? Are we to spurn His gift of intellect, to live our lives in misery

and ignorance, like the animals above which we were obviously set? I say that to do so

is to insult God, to reject His gifts, to cast aside His love. I say that to continue as we

are is the worst sin imaginable, and we all deserve our damnation for eternity in the

fiery, everburning pits of hell."

 

Pias had taken everything the Puritans believed and twisted it around 180 degrees. He

had preached epicureanism to stoics, hedonism to ascetics; had broken every code

they knew. And yet so expertly had he played the game, so skillfully had he

manipulated their emotions, that they ended up loving it. By the time he had finished,

nearly a quarter of the audience was dedicated to his cause, and more than half the

rest were at least tolerant of his ideas.

 

"Well," he asked Yvette after his first performance, "what do you think now?"

 

"I think," she said, "that if you can keep on consistently like this, it will make Tresa

Clunard and her Army of the Just sit up and take notice."

 

And she was right.

 

Chapter 8

Slag

 

The meeting with Chactan, the arms supplier, would be a big one, and naturally Jules

and Yvonne chose to dress up for the occasion. Jules sported a mustache and wore

contact lenses that changed his eye color from gray to brown. He darkened his

complexion, added a few creases to his face, and insinuated the faintest bit of gray into

his hair, all of which gave him the appearance of being a decade older than he really

was.

 

Vonnie dyed her normally brown hair red and plucked out her eyebrows until they were

just the thinnest of lines, separating her eyelids from her forehead; She covered her

face and hands, and all other exposed areas of skin, with the glittering body makeup

that was the rage of Sector Thirty-One, and she wore boots with heels that added a full

six centimeters to her height.

 

The meeting was to take place in the center of an open field, where there was a clear

view for kilometers around. That would prevent Chactan and his cohorts from planning

any kind of ambush. The d'Alemberts arrived in their groundcar two hours early to

check out the landscape and, when they had assured themselves there were no tricks,

they sat in their craft and waited for the others to arrive.

 

Five minutes before the appointed hour, Chactan's copter came into view over the

horizon. It flew at a leisurely pace and settled to earth twenty meters from the

d'Alembert car. As Jules had instructed, Chactan and Panji were the only two people

inside. They stepped out of the copter, arms extended to either side to show they were

carrying no weapons. Jules nodded to his wife, and the two SOTS agents climbed out

of their own vehicle. The four people met at a spot midway between the two crafts.

 

Chactan was not a physically impressive man. He was of medium height and build, with

a dark complexion and weathered hands. He was partially bald and had craggy good

looks. But his walk and his mannerisms revealed him to be a man brimming with

self-confidence, not to be crossed lightly. So far, the d'Alemberts' dealings with Panji

had been simple, but this Chactan would be no easy opponent.

 

"Khorosho, were here," J ules said as he and Vonnie approached the other pair. "We've

been delegated to speak for our organization. What have you got to say?"

 

It was Chactan who replied; Panji had been brought along merely to provide someone

familiar to these unknown interlopers, and would take no real part in the negotiations.

"This struggle between us has to stop. It's taking too heavy a toll on both sides."

 

"Really? I hadn't noticed any toll on our side.

 

If Jules's remark had any effect on Chactan, he masked it nicely. "There haven't been

any profits, though, either. Blowing up our shipments hasn't automatically brought you

business. The customers you've tried to steal from us haven't been able to get any

merchandise, from what we hear on the street. You've been spending so much of your

energy hitting us that you haven't had time to do any selling of your own. And that's

what business is really about, isn't it?" Jules stood silently for a moment, then gave a

slow nod. "Even if what you say is true, we still hold the upper hand. The market is still

there, unfulfilled. If we continue on as we are, we'll starve you out and then have it all to

ourselves."

 

"Do you think so?"Chactan raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "If we leave our customers

unsatisfied too much longer, someone else will move in to supply their needs. Then

you'll have to get rid of him, too. You'll be spending all your time and money just getting

rid of the competition, and you won't have any chance to make a profit. I don't think you

can continue operating that way much longer."

 

"I presume you're here to offer an alternative." "Yes, a partnership. We're not greedy.

Rather than continuing to lose so much of our investment to your inroads, we'll take you

in and let you work with us, sharing the profits accordingly."

 

"What can you do for us that we can't do for ourselves?" Yvonne spoke up for the first

time. Chactan turned to face her. "We've got the contacts ready-made; it could take you

months, or even years, to develop a network the size of ours. We've already got the

customers and a distribution set up to serve their needs."

 

"We've got a few customers too, that you probably don't know anything about." Vonnie

dropped that little comment and watched Chactan's eyes light up. If he was plugged

into Lady A's conspiracy, that piece of news would travel quickly back to headquarters.

"We get our merchandise from a couple of small manufacturers who operate double

inventory systems to fool the impers. What about you?"

 

Chactan smiled, glad of the opportunity to show off the superiority of his own

organization. "We don't have to bother with complications like that. We have our own

plant hidden away, providing top-notch goods exclusively for us."

 

They had already guessed that, but Jules and Yvonne pretended to be excited by this

revelation. They asked for a moment alone and pretended to confer among themselves.

Then they asked Chactan for the plant's location, but he wouldn't tell them. They asked

technical questions about the plant's operating capacity and output, number of

employees, and profit margins. Chactan answered some questions specifically while

leaving others vague or totally ignored.

 

Jules and Vonnie next asked for some time alone in their car while they talked to "other

executives" in their organization. They put on a good show of arguing over the car

radio, out of earshot of Chactan and Panji, to convince those two that the SOTS agents

were part of a larger group. Finally, they emerged from their car once more and

approached the central meeting spot.

 

"We agree," Jules said, "on one condition. We have to inspect your plant to make sure

it's producing up to our standards."

 

Chactan shook his head. "But if you don't like it, that still gives you the opportunity to

back out, knowing where our plant is and able to cause still more damage to us, without